Here we are about to start our hike early in the morning on Day 2. Day 1 was devoted to driving and prepping at a car campground along the gorgeous Chiwawa River (to avoid hiking in the heat of the afternoon). Because we didn’t start hiking until Day 2, this will be an introduction to the course rather than a description of Day 1.

Introduction to the Blog: This blog describes the University of Washington Program on the Environment course, ENVIR 380, Wilderness in the Anthropocene. Below is my introduction to the course and my reflections on wilderness*. Each student has contributed one post to this blog. We had a truly unforgettable trip with gorgeous (albeit hot) weather, deep discussion, and amazing camaraderie amongst an inspiring group of young folks, representing a range of identities and backgrounds. For one week, we sought solitude from the human-dominated parts of our landscape, and marveled at sunrises and sunsets, climbed and descended snowy passes, swam in cold lakes, and stargazed in one of the most spectacular alpine campsites ever. However, we were also sobered by uncharacteristically hot weather, a nearby fire, and evidence for a rapidly disappearing glacier, reminding us that even remote natural areas are no longer immune to the ravages of Anthropogenic climate change.

Acknowledgments: I want to acknowledge that our course took place in vicinity of Takobia (aka Glacier Peak) close to the reservations of the Sauk-Suiattle Tribe (west of Takobia) and the Colville Tribes (east of Takobia). The Colville tribes include the descendants of the šnp̍əšqʷáw̉šəxʷ (Wenatchi) on whose ancestral lands we spent the week living, learning, and exploring.  We owe a debt of gratitude to these people, past and present, for stewarding these lands——lands that are in fact not really “wilderness,” a term used by colonizers to sometimes “erase” the presence of Indigenous people. Rather, we prefer the term “remote nature“, which more accurately acknowledges the minimal impact of modern human technology, while simultaneously acknowledging the presence and influence of people living sustainably on these lands since time immemorial. As well, we owe them allyship in their fight to exercise treaty rights on lands and waters that were taken from them by the federal government, and recognize them as important co-managers of the landscape with the United States Forest Service.

I want to offer a huge shout out and thank you to Courtney Peetz for being an all around rock-star assistant leader, and for coordinating all of our delicious trail meals. I also want to thank Claire Giordano for joining us again as an unofficial assistant, and as an inspirational guest instructor in landscape painting.

Introduction to the Course: It was truly a pleasure to spend 8 days in the wilderness with the inspirational group of people you see below, on the 12th annual offering (click here and here and here for some previous years’ blogs) of the interdisciplinary summer field course, ENVIR 380: Wilderness in the Anthropocene, offered by the University of Washington Environmental Studies Program. The course was taught primarily through the lens of an eight-day wilderness backpacking trip (July 6-14, 2024), bookended by online reading, discussion, and reflection assignments. This year, for the first time ever, we explored the spectacular Glacier Peak Wilderness, beginning our hike near Leavenworth on the east slope of the Cascades. The wilderness landscape served as a baseline for reflection on changes in the regional landscape in the distant (back to the last ice age) and recent (the last 150 years of European settlement and industrialization) past, why these changes occurred (or are occurring) and what they mean for our future, from ecological and social standpoints. Using wilderness as a baseline, we also challenged the idea of wilderness itself: how the concept of wilderness came to be, who it serves, who it doesn’t, and even who it has harmed. Through reflection on our individual wilderness experiences, we assessed the value wilderness, both as an idea and as a place, to society in the Anthropocene, this critical juncture in Earth’s history.

The group poses at the sign marking the entrance to Glacier Peak Wilderness. L-R back row: Dru Boogs, Bill Baxter, Anna Linnenkamp, Kayla Engelhardt, Tim Billo, Nancy Gau, Shriya Prasanna, Eloise Schell, Anaelle Enders. Seated L-R Front: Courtney Peetz, Evian Adams, Kaija Koenigberg. Photo by Claire Giordano

Each student on the course led an evening discussion around a topic he/she/they were interested in, often incorporating outside quotes and background studies as a way to introduce the topic and provide more fodder for discussion. With such a small and close-knit group, and the setting sun as a backdrop, the discussions take place in an idyllic “classroom” where everyone takes a turn weighing in. Discussion topics over the years have been wide-ranging, reflecting the diversity and creativity of students who have taken the course over the years.  A sampling of topics we have discussed over the years include, in no particular order: 1) ethics around the use of technology in wilderness, 2) ethics and implications around hands-on natural resource management in wilderness, including removal of species such as mountain goats and barred owls in Olympic National Park, suppression/implementation of fire, assisted migration of plants and animals, and reintroduction of grizzly bears, 3) changing concepts of wilderness in the 21st Century, 4) the historic and present place of Native Americans in Wilderness and national parks, and the connection between decimation of Indigenous peoples with the development of American wilderness philosophy, 5) exploring work versus recreation in nature, and ensuing dichotomies in environmental philosophy which develop from these two perspectives, 6) what wilderness can or can’t teach us about sustainability, 7)  what wilderness can teach us about environmental activism and an evaluation of activism in general as part of the environmentalist toolkit, 8) balancing wilderness protection with the encouragement of increased visitation and equitable access for all people,  9) contrasting views on conservation in eastern, western, and Indigenous philosophy, 10) access to wilderness and national parks, and how to make nature a safer and more accessible space for all, 11) human health and importance of access to quiet or unpeopled spaces, 12) “cancel culture” and the necessity of understanding people and cultures you disagree with, particularly in the wilderness literature canon, 13) the relationship of the wilderness idea to the American summer camp tradition, 14) eco-feminism and the masculinization/feminization of nature, 15) definitions of nature, natural, wildness, and wilderness, 16) pros and cons of wilderness as a tool for therapy, 17) importance of childhood experiences in nature,  and more! As in previous years, we also discussed the known positive effects of spending time in nature (and time away from technology) on human health, while feeling its positive effects on our own health as the trip progressed.

In addition to philosophical discussions, and much laughter and camaraderie, our journey included round-the-clock observations of natural history, including evidence for past and ongoing climate change. This year’s hike had the dubious distinction of starting during an intensive heat wave that gripped much of Washington, especially the east slope of the North Cascades. It was around 95 degrees when we reached the trailhead at the old mining town of Trinity on what was supposed to be our first day of hiking. Due to the heat, we were forced to start hiking the next day, as we holed up in a campground by the river, resting in the shade. The heat stayed with us for much of the first half of the trip, and necessitated many early morning starts, and a layover day by the cool waters of Lyman Lake. We were also shocked, but not surprised, to see just how much the Lyman Glacier has retreated in the last 20 years, not to mention the last 100 years. Kayla Engelhardt documents this well in her blog post.

In this blog, each student has written about one day of the trip, and offered additional personal thoughts on the importance of wilderness, a commodity whose value has recently been questioned in some conservation circles, as we enter the Anthropocene. It is my hope that this blog conveys the power of the wilderness learning experience and its deep impact on the lives of those who are lucky enough to experience it. For those who do not have the opportunity to experience it, perhaps this blog will bring them a step closer.

Kayla compares a historical photo of the Lyman Glacier from 20 years ago, to today. Twenty years ago, it would still have been possible to walk out onto a robust ice sheet from near the point where this photo was taken. 120 years ago, one could have walked across an ice sheet hundreds of feet thick, down the entire upper valley, extending about a half mile beyond the right-hand border of this photo,

Natural History Observations: This was our first time running the course in the Glacier Peak Wilderness, and I was delighted by the diversity of birds we saw in the area, as well as fascinated by how the east slope of the Cascades differs biologically from the eastern of the Olympic Mountains. While many species of plants and animals are the same, there are many differences too, both in diversity and relative abundance. The lower forests of the Phelps Creek played host to conspicuous and abundant western tanagers and evening grosbeaks. While both species are found in the Olympics, they were much more abundant here than there. In similar habitats I also heard black-headed grosbeaks, which I have not heard in the Olympic Mountains (although they occur in the lowlands). Species I have never or rarely heard in the eastern Olympic Mountains, but which were common in the upper Phelps Creek Valley (Spider Meadow), included Nashville warblers (scrubby openings in forest before the meadow), lazuli buntings, Lincoln’s sparrows, chipping sparrows, fox sparrows, and willow flycatchers. MacGillivray’s warbler, common in subalpine shrubby meadows in the Olympics, was absent in Spider Meadow. Olive sided flycatchers were abundant and noisy in the subalpine meadows, along with yellow warblers in the willow scrub, as they are in the eastern Olympics too. Rare in the eastern Olympics are Clark’s nutcrackers, but they were common in the upper Phelps Creek Basin and Lyman Lakes area, due mostly to the abundant whitebark pines which they feed on. Whitebark pine is relatively rare in the Olympics. Spotted sandpipers were common around the lakes and rocky streams (but uncommon in the Olympics), but we did not encounter American dippers (common in the Olympics). Despite the abundant cutthroat trout in Lyman Lake, I saw no eagles of any kind, no kingfishers (except on the Chiwawa River), and no ospreys–all species I often see around Olympic lakes. While I had hoped to see white-tailed ptarmigans (absent from the Olympics) up on the ridges and snowfields of Chiwawa Mountain, none were encountered. All in all, we saw about 35 species of birds.

Long-toed salamander at Lyman Lake. Photo by Claire Giordano.

The tree species are mostly similar between the east slope of the Cascades and the eastern Olympics, with a few key exceptions: as noted above, whitebark pine is abundant in the alpine areas, along with Lyall’s larches (absent in the Olympics). Engelmann spruce is common in the montane areas (and very rare in the Olympics). Alaska cedar is absent in the valleys we visited this year (but abundant in similar looking areas of the Olympics). While we saw a decent amount of bear scat, no bears were encountered–unlike the Olympics where it is not uncommon to encounter 10 or more different bears on a similar length trip. Lyman Lake was stocked with cutthroat trout, a species I have not seen in the Olympics.  Another fun find, which I have never witnessed in the Olympics, on the muddy upper slopes of Larch Knob where the snow had just gone out, I saw thousands of tiger beetles (Oregon tiger beetle?) in a frenzy of mating and provisioning of ground burrows. At Lyman Lake we were graced with the presence of a long-toed salamander. And at Larch Knob, we intruded on the territories of a chipmunk, a ground squirrel (absent from the Olympics), and a pika (absent from the Olympics). At least 2 of us were dismayed to find we had picked up ticks on this trip (also absent from the Olympic Mountains).

On the recently deglaciated terrain of the upper Lyman basin, we discovered a lot of plant species one would expect to see, including Tolmie’s saxifrage, pink, yellow, and white heather (C. tetragona absent), partridge foot, and dwarf mountain groundsel (which I have not seen in the Olympics). I was surprised to find a very out of place lone trapper’s tea bush. In this alpine area, we saw grey-crowned rosy finches and American pipits, both fairly common in the Olympics as well, often found foraging for insects on or around snowfields.

For more information on many of these species, Eloise Schell has created an excellent blog post for us.

A lone trapper’s tea on the recently deglaciated terrain above upper Lyman lakes.

Thoughts on management: Plant and animal species isolated on high ridges and snowfields (such as some of the flowers and birds discussed in the previous paragraph) will be some of the first to go extinct given current projections for human-induced climate change, and it will be up to humans to decide whether to help these species out by moving them to places more climatically amenable (assuming they are incapable of dispersal themselves), or to risk them going extinct. Whether we have a moral imperative to save species, and whether it would be ethical to move them to more amenable sites, are bigger questions which we explore on the course, especially in “wilderness” areas which we have traditionally thought of as places where nature should be left to take care of itself, where nature is “untrammeled” and man is only a “visitor who does not remain.” This question is particularly pressing in the Olympic mountains, which are an isolated range with many endemic alpine species. Currently we are in a precarious balance where more terrain becomes available as snowfields and glaciers rapidly melt (creating more space for organisms that are not dependent on snow, and/or that need bare ground), with forests gradually creeping higher up the valleys (assuming they don’t burn). The net effect is that cold loving species will become trapped on high mountain peaks and find it more difficult to disperse north and south along the corridor that the north/south Cascade mountains provide.

One issue with important ecological, ethical, and conservation ramifications, which we did discuss at some length this year, is the imminent reintroduction of grizzly bears to the North Cascades (once present in the Cascades and always absent from the Olympics). This is a species that has been thus far unable to naturally regain its former territory in the North Cascades, despite nearby wild populations in British Columbia and Idaho. An important central question within this discussion is, who is wilderness for? Is it for people, much as the originators of the  wilderness idea envisaged (think John Muir, or even avid the Washington recreationalists who wrote the first guidebooks to our mountains), or is it at least equally for wildlife conservation as today’s US Forest Service and National Park Service are more likely to espouse?

Large mammals like grizzly bears need wide open spaces to roam, and it is inevitable that they will come into contact with people, either when they roam out of mountain wilderness, and across lowland roads and into nearby towns. I love the idea of a wilderness with grizzly bears, but we will need extra funding to educate people how to interact with big bears.  As much as I would like to romanticize a return to the wildernesses of pre-1850, this area is fundamentally different now. Climate change aside–which will temporarily create more habitat for grizzlies–human population has been growing explosively since the late 1800s. Between 1895 and 2015, the Seattle area grew from 40,000 people to over 4.2 million. In the next 25 years, Seattle will grow by another 1.5 million. Virtually every piece of accessible habitat in the lowlands of the Puget Trough has been severely impacted by humans at one time or another, in some cases irrevocably as urban sprawl creeps outward. When the throngs of hiking enthusiasts such as ourselves, head into the mountains every summer, interactions between grizzly bears and humans will be inevitable. While they can be the pinnacle of a positive and breath-taking wilderness experience, human interactions with grizzlies can be very different from interactions with black bears, and can often end badly for either the bear or the person–unless people are taught how to co-exist properly with the bears.

Glacier Peak, as viewed from Cloudy Pass on our hike. Takobia, as it is known to some Indigenous groups is the centerpiece of the Glacier Peak Wilderness. Photo by Tim Billo.

Thoughts on Wilderness:

Due in part to the inaccessibility of the terrain, and thanks to courageous leaders who stood up to resource extraction industries around the turn of the 20th Century (and here in the PNW even into the 1960s as is the case with Glacier Peak Wilderness and North Cascades National Park), that our largest national parks, wilderness areas, and remaining large tracts of old growth were saved from the ax and/or development. It is remarkable that in only 25 miles as the crow (or eagle) flies from Seattle, an international hub of high tech industry, one can begin a walk into any number of large million acre roadless areas. It is this short gradient from ultra-urban to wilderness, that also makes the region such an appealing place to live, as well as a unique place to reflect on landscape change (past, present, and future), and ramifications of this change (namely, the loss or gain of “wild” spaces) for society in the Anthropocene.

It would be wrong to go further without acknowledging that wilderness as an idea, and ultimately as a physical space (Wilderness with a capital “W”), have respectively been responsible for the psychological erasure and physical removal of Native Americans from their homelands, causing traumas that cannot be undone. With that said, for those who cherish landscapes where the preservation and conservation of nature has been prioritized, and many Native Americans I have spoken to do, wilderness has been a blessing in disguise, especially when we consider the likely alternative (logging and mining interests running roughshod over most of the landscape). There is further recognition that our wilderness lands are probably too vast to be properly managed by (or at this point, to belong to) any one entity and this is where we are increasingly seeing co-management between tribes, state, and federal entities. I don’t want to paint too rosy of a picture here with respect to tribes (and it wouldn’t be my place to do so), but my feeling is that we are headed in the right direction. There is increasing acknowledgement of the rights of tribes to both manage and harvest resources across all of their treaty lands (including those designated as Wilderness), and that Indigenous traditions (including fire management techniques) are creating healthier ecosystems and teaching all of us how to be better stewards of the lands and waters that sustain us. I should also add that in many cases, it is my feeling the tribes are going above and beyond–again an example we should herald and follow as society: Near our hike, for example, the Yakama Nation has been actively involved (along with federal agencies) in overseeing the cleanup of an old mine (which should have been cleaned up by the mining company) just outside of the wilderness boundary. This has huge benefit to not only the protected lands of the upper Lake Chelan and Lyman Creek, but to downstream communities and fisheries on the Columbia River (where the Yakama Nation is based today).

I should also acknowledge that wilderness recreation has not always been accessible to everyone in our society. The ills of racism, sexism, classism, poverty and more have conspired to restrict who has traditionally benefitted from wilderness recreation. This course is one small attempt to combat those ills and make the wilderness experience more open to all, and to perhaps foster a new generation of leaders who will further open these spaces to all who would desire to see what they have to offer.

Claire Giordano displays a painting she created on our trip. Claire views art as an “act of hope” in a time when it may feel like there is not a lot of hope. Art forces us to slow down and savor the beauty, even as we face a time in Earth’s history where nature is changing rapidly at our hands. Photo courtesy of Claire Giordano.

Reflections on this year’s course:

As with every year I teach this course, I relish the opportunity for reflection on what our local wilderness areas teach me about myself and the greater landscape of “home”, as well as the many values our wilderness spaces offer society, from the ecological to the psychological. Extended wilderness travel offers us rare time and space (both of which are commodities in today’s world), to connect with our past, and to think deeply about how we might move forward as a society at this critical juncture in earth’s history, the beginning of the Anthropocene era.

Trained as a biologist, I have personally always been attracted to the ecological benefits of wilderness preserves, from their role in providing refuge for rare species, to their role in the proper functioning of earth’s complex biogeochemical systems, as well as their role in humbling us as we reject the trappings of modern civilization; reminding us to be better stewards within a web of life that is in some ways resilient and other ways fragile. I have become convinced over the years, however, mainly from listening to my students, that the health benefits of wilderness immersion–including 1) the benefits of physical exertion (both physiological and psychological), 2) the mental benefits derived from focus on nature and disconnection from technology, 3) greater attention to life’s essential elements and rhythms, and 4)focus on genuine in-person friendship and teamwork–are among the most important benefits of wilderness in the Anthropocene. My students are growing up in a time and environment that is different from the environment I grew up in (and contrary to how I may appear, I’m not that old!). Their world is more connected electronically, but less connected to nature and to in-person relationships. And with seemingly constant news of environmental catastrophe and social strife, the state of the world often feels fundamentally uncertain and depressing. Perhaps wilderness provides the ultimate re-set, the ultimate way to unplug from the overwhelming weight of life in the modern world, and the ultimate way to re-focus on the fundamentals of healthy living that are within our control: a chance to recognize and regain our physical and psychological strength, a chance to create real and strong social bonds, and a chance to build strength through those bonds, through sharing and identifying our common feelings and emotions, and shared desire to address the ills of the world with renewed vigor.

As is painfully obvious at the end of any wilderness trip, most of us do not spend most of our lives in wilderness (nor perhaps would most of us want to–but I think we can all agree that we would desire to spend a little more time in wilderness than we do). It is about what we learn from being immersed in a resilient yet fragile natural environment with only the resources on our backs and the ingenuity of our peers, and how we apply that learning to the places where we spend the majority of our lives. It is about how nature makes us feel small and humble, yet grateful, and ultimately powerful to steward our natural and built environments for a more sustainable future. And for those of us who do desire and/or are privileged to spend more time in wilderness, how can we make the experience available to others? And how can we get involved politically to insure that areas for nature recreation and contemplation are expanded (and not rolled back)? Today’s generations are the beneficiaries of people and groups (such as the North Cascades Conservation Council and Olympic Park Associates) who fought fiercely for these places–places we often take for granted, and places that can be rolled back for other uses if we disengage from democracy.

More than anything, the students inspire me and give me hope for the future. They bring so much passion, energy, bravery, and nuanced thinking to a world that seems ever more complex and fragile. I feel so grateful and privileged to be able to lead these trips. I feel so lucky that we safely (and with high spirits) navigated one of the most extreme heatwaves this area has ever seen, along with a nearby wildfire whose smoke was thankfully blowing away from us most of the time. The elements stressed us and our nature kin, but we collectively found ways to adapt. As always, I am humbled and strengthened by nature, and privileged to have spent 8 days traveling with such inspiring students. Thank you. And enjoy their blog posts.

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As each student has done on their individual post, I will offer a personal reflection on wilderness which I have posted in a separate blog post at the end of all the student posts.

Although the trip began Saturday morning, we postponed hitting the trail until Sunday to avoid starting our hike during the blisteringly hot afternoon heat from the heatwave that would define the entire trip. Although the heat wave was one of many signs of climate change seen during the week, for me, it was the first significant indication that climate change is in full swing. Although this thought hung heavy on my mind as I woke up Sunday morning, it did nothing to damper my excitement about hitting the trail and beginning what turned out to be one of the best experiences of my life.

Sunday morning began slowly due to the group’s collective inexperience with backpacking before this trip. It was then that I realized that mornings would take a while due to our group’s size. Once we had all packed up and sorted our gear, we were all transported from the campsite we had stayed at the previous night to the start of the trailhead. Unfortunately, I realized I had left my sunglasses at the campsite right before we all set off to begin our hike. At that moment, I did not know the importance of sunglasses until I looked at the faces of the trip leads, Tim, Courteney, and Claire who were, as I understood later, genuinely worried. However, my eyes were saved by an extremely kind passerby with a spare pair. I genuinely cannot recall many times in my life where I have been more grateful. This was just one of the many instances during this trip where I witnessed great warmth and compassion from my fellow hikers.

Picture taken Sunday morning from the first campsite we stayed at.

Once we finally began trekking down the trail, I was amazed at the gorgeous views of the snowcapped mountains peeking through the trees. Prior to this trip, I hadn’t spent a prolonged amount of time in sub-alpine environments, so there were many new plants and animal species that I had never seen before. It was during this time that we discovered Tim’s wealth of knowledge of the plants and animal species surrounding us. From then on, whenever somebody in the group saw anything that caught their eye, they would ask Tim what it was. Some of my peers were also very knowledgeable about the flora and fauna, which allowed for a fascinating and informative hiking experience. Some of the standout species that I witnessed and learned about were the pika, varied thrush, grey-crowned rosy finch, dispirited tiger beetle, convergent lady beetle, the (extremely annoying) western pond fly, the red western columbine, and what is now my favorite flower, the western anemone.

The view of the snowcapped mountains peeking through the trees at the trailhead.

First stream crossing. Photo by Tim Billo

Pictures taken by Anaelle soon after we started hiking.

We encountered the first of many water crossings relatively early in the hike. This was when the two individuals within the group without hiking poles realized their slight disadvantage. I am an extremely clumsy hiker, so I am sure that had I left my hiking poles at home, I would have fallen even more than I already did—which was a lot. However, luckily for those two hikers, everybody in our group was amazing and loaned their poles when needed to get over some tricky spots.

The rest of the hike that day was relatively uneventful. However, we took a rather long break about halfway through the hike at the Glacier Peak Wilderness entrance point. There, we had a more extended discussion about the history of Wilderness spaces in America and, specifically, what purpose they serve. Before this discussion, I was unaware of the Wilderness Act of 1964, which established the national wilderness preservation system and created a formal mechanism for creating and protecting federal wilderness. I was surprised that Congress established this law in the 1960s because I had thought that wilderness spaces were established before then. Coincidentally, I was right. The Glacier Peak Wilderness itself was established in 1960 by the U.S. Forest Service, just four years before the passing of the Wilderness Act. However, wilderness areas established before the 1964 Wilderness Act were not federally protected, which meant that mining and logging companies often heavily exploited the “protected” area.

Our group about to enter the Glacier Peak Wilderness. Photo by Claire Giordano.

Due to our late start that morning, the tail end of the hike occurred during the hottest part of the day, early afternoon, which was definitely not my favorite part of the trip. However, it was all worth it for the breathtaking views from the campsite we stayed in that night in Spider Meadows. Although it was still hot and buggy, the valley and mountains surrounding us were so stunning that it was easy to forget about any physical discomfort. As the sun set that evening, I led the trip’s first discussion, which focused on the importance of environmental education, especially for young children. Since it was the first discussion, it was a bit more stilted than the rest. Yet, it eventually became a lively and exciting discussion. Some topics we touched on were our early experiences with nature, the importance of Indigenous history and traditional ecological knowledge, environmental justice, and accessibility to nature. After the discussion, we all slowly headed to our tents, excited for what awaited us on day three.

View from the Spider Meadows campsite. Photo by Claire Giordano.

Favorite Moments

There is one moment that occurred during the evening of day four at the Lyman Lakes campsite that deeply resonated with me. Although most days on this trip were relatively easy, day four was particularly grueling. The difficult hiking conditions, extreme heat, and swarms of mosquitos took a significant mental and physical toll on me. I was absolutely exhausted when the group finally reached the Lyman Lakes campsite. My only saving grace was the beautifully calm lake less than 200 feet from the campsite. I waited to get into the lake until I had helped the group set up the tents for the night, but as soon as I was free to do as I wanted, I booked it to the lake. Before getting in, I expected it to feel nice and refreshing; however, I did not expect to feel the sheer amount of peace and tranquility that came upon me.

I cannot recall a single time in my life where I can remember feeling the same emotions I felt at that moment. I truly felt such an immense amount of relief and peacefulness that I would do practically anything to feel that rush of emotions again. At that moment, I was not thinking of anything but the physical sensations of the cool blue water and the soft, squishy mud at my feet. I have wondered over the past few weeks why this moment was so profound since this trip. After giving it some thought, this moment was special because I had finally relinquished any lingering anxieties associated with city life. I finally existed in the moment, was fully present, and could genuinely, sincerely appreciate my surroundings.

This moment cemented my love for backpacking because I know now that I can experience a profound sense of freedom and peacefulness by spending a few days of uninterrupted, screenless time in nature. Throughout the trip, the group occasionally filled out surveys that asked questions regarding the correlation between happiness and time in nature. Along with the abovementioned experience, these surveys challenged my thinking because they made me reconsider my relationship with nature and the potential benefits of spending more time in nature. I believe this experience has dramatically altered how I perceive nature from something “other” to an essential facet of the human experience. Humans rely upon nature to sustain them physically and, more importantly, mentally. From now on, I will make a much more determined effort to spend time in green spaces to connect with nature and experience the authentic human experience.

 Reflections

This experience has had a much more profound impact on me than I thought it would. I now have a much greater appreciation for nature and its role in sustaining human life, both physically and mentally. I am also much happier now than before this experience because I now spend much more time outside than I previously did. A big reason why I spend more time in green spaces is because there were many times throughout the trip when I was truly, genuinely happy. This was shocking to me because, for most of my life, I have felt a sense of euthymia, which is often defined as a state of neutrality. I discovered during this experience that I am generally more content and happier in nature than inside or in very urban spaces with little greenery. Furthermore, although I had read about nature’s ability to be all-consuming in many historical accounts of experiences in nature, I had my doubts about whether or not it was possible. However, through my experience with this class, I now wholeheartedly agree that nature can be all-consuming. I discovered through this experience that nature grants individuals the ability to relinquish their responsibilities and to fully exist in the moment. This realization made me feel simultaneously extraordinarily grateful and very small. It is easy to forget how inconsequential you are when you live in a city until you are humbled by spending time in nature and existing as a part of an ecosystem rather than a separate entity.

One major issue with how wilderness areas are perceived is that they are often viewed as non-human. This perception has a precedent because the 1964 Wilderness Act states that wilderness areas are “an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain.” (US Forest Service). This quote is disheartening because it disconnects man from nature by stating that they are a “visitor” rather than an animal simply existing in its environment. Furthermore, the disconnection between humans and nature is disheartening because it allows individuals to lose their connection to nature, which tends to create apathetic feelings toward nature and subsequently, climate change. This loss of connection is devastating because a collective effort must be made to protect wild spaces from the disastrous effects of climate change that are currently being seen on a massive global scale. However, although this may seem contradictory, I feel very strongly that the purpose of wilderness areas should be primarily for the preservation efforts of natural ecosystems and wild areas rather than for the enjoyment of humans. Granted, I do not feel that wilderness areas should be off-limits to humans.

To ensure that wilderness areas are adequately cared for and maintained decades from now, a federally mandated permitting system should limit the number of visitors who can access wilderness areas each day. These systems are essential in preserving fragile environments and hikers’ experiences because they prevent individuals who may be more likely to damage the environment due to negligence, ignorance, or both. It would also maintain access to those who seek to use these areas as an environment that can be used for primitive recreational use such as backpacking or hiking. However, I know that the permitting system is controversial because it further limits accessibility to these wild spaces. This is a profoundly troubling issue because I genuinely wish that natural spaces were more accessible to non-white, wealthy individuals. Still, suppose accessibility comes at the cost of potentially increasing damage to these essential ecosystems. In that case, I say keep the permitting system.

Work Cited

“The Wilderness Story.” US Forest Service, www.fs.usda.gov/managing-land/wilderness/wilderness-stories#:~:text=The%20Wilderness%20Act%20of%201964,for%20solitude%20and%20retrospective%20or. Accessed 31 July 2024.

Sharing some words of wisdom to start the day. Photo by Tim Billo.

      Start of the second day of hiking at Spider Meadow. Kayla pictured at the back of the group. Image credit: Nancy.

Our second day of hiking started early with a 5am wakeup time. While it took a couple hours to deconstruct our tents, get the bear hang down, eat breakfast, and repack, we started to cross Spider Meadow while the air still felt cool. The expanse of green visible here was like none other during this trip.

River crossing in Spider Meadow. Courtney pictured on the left and Anna on the right. Image credit: Tim.

After hiking through the meadow for about an hour, we came to a stream crossing. The water ran rapidly, and it was above my ankles. Having an extra fifty pounds on our backs made the risk of slipping on smooth rock seem high. We switched into our other shoes to not get our hiking boots wet. Then taking our time, we crossed one by one through the ten meters of water that felt like twenty. While it was daunting, the combined experience of our instructors made it seem like something I could take on.

Trail sign at the fork between the Spider Gap and Phelps Basin trails. Picture at the bottom indicates no horses permitted. Image credit: Evian.

After the river crossing, we hiked uphill for a bit underneath the shade of trees, which was a good warmup for what was to come. This was a nice spot to rest, and here we also got our first glimpses of snow, albeit only in small patches. Feeling the heat, we put snow in our hats and let the melting water cool our heads.

Beginning of the Spider Gap trail. From left to right, pictured are Nancy, Kaija, and Shriya.

It felt like suddenly our shade was gone. We were fully exposed to the blistering sun and on an even steeper incline. The rocky trail made for tougher climbing than the dirt paths we had taken for granted. The blue sky above was beautiful, but in that moment, I wished for clouds. Soon after we started to climb two hikers greeted us coming down and told us what lay ahead. Although I was worried, seeing other people taking the same path we would take gave me courage.

View of Spider Meadow from Spider Gap. Image credit: Evian.

After half an hour of hiking, I was already feeling exhausted. When I stopped to catch a breath, I turned my head to look out over Spider Meadow. And then the valley took my breath away again. An expansive realm of green filled the U-shaped path a glacier had left behind years ago. Seven Fingered Jack loomed in the distance with its multiple pointy peaks. Rivers ran down the mountainsides and through the valley. Where we camped just that morning had become a small spot miles away, and that made me feel proud of how far we had already come.

Spreading Phlox on the Spider Gap trail. Image credit: Nancy.

On the mountain trail we encoutered many kinds of beautiful flowers. They appeared in small groups on the rocks and in some places were quite numerous. The different species formed a patchwork of multiple colors that was almost as pretty as the view of the valley they sat beside. I was impressed by the hardiness of these flowers to thrive at such high altitude with only meager amounts of soil mixed in with rock.

Larch Knob with Spider Meadow in the background. Image credit: Evian.

After what felt like hours of hiking, we finally made it to Larch Knob. The Knob was a small rocky hill with warped trees on its back that overlooked the whole valley from an incredible height. A picturesque river ran alongside our campsite, giving us much needed water and cool air.

Snowy landscape and river just past Larch Knob. Image credit: Evian.

As I looked past our campsite, upstream from the river, I saw a spectacular snowy landscape. Given we had been hiking with extreme heat in the sun earlier, this felt sudden and like it was the border to an entirely new place. We would spend the night on this blurry line between solid dirt and snowscape.

Heading out to snow school. Photo by Claire Giordano

Photo by Claire Giordano

Snow School. Photo by Claire Giordano

Practicing self arrest. Photo by Claire Giordano

Photo by Claire Giordano

Still, before we could collapse into our sleeping bags, Tim had one final task for us. Since most of the day tomorrow would be spent on snow, he taught us how to traverse the terrain. We learned to plunge step while going downhill and use our weight to compress the snow beneath our boots. While going uphill we learned the crossover step and step-kicking to make footholds for ourselves and the people behind us. Finally, we learned my favorite technique, the controlled glissade, to slide down a mountain as if my pant legs were skis. I learned how helpful the ice axe was in keeping my balance, and I gained a new appreciation for the tool that had felt like five pounds of dead weight up to this point. Now, with the work for the day done, we could finally eat dinner and watch the sunset. We enjoyed our well-earned sleep.

Sunset from Larch Knob. Image credit: Nancy.

Another sunset view from Larch Knob. Photo by Claire Giordano

My trip highlight:

The most powerful moment of the trip came for me at the end of the first day of hiking, the afternoon we arrived at Spider Meadow for the first time. At this point I was feeling more tired than I would be at any other point on the trip, since on this first day my pack was the heaviest, I had the least experience hiking with a pack, and my legs lacked the training I would get in the days to come. So, for me arriving at Spider Meadow felt like the greatest relief of the entire trip.

View from Spider Meadow campsite. Image credit: Kaija.

And then the view was unlike anything I had ever seen before. I had never had such an unobscured and close view of a mountain prior to this, as I typically hike on forest trails with denser tree cover. This was even beyond that, as in the middle of the valley the mountains were all around me, and everywhere I looked the panoramic landscape filled my vision. It struck me that the mountains looked simultaneously close and far, with the level of visible detail and lack of obstruction suggesting closeness but still knowing that these peaks were surely miles away. Yet the landscape seemed like it was just right there, as if I could reach out and touch it. In this place I most strongly felt Thoreau’s sense of divinity in nature and the sublime, as imperfect as his work might be. My eyes and body were telling me that I had wandered into Nature’s great basin, and I was a mere droplet of water. I certainly felt small in this place, both in the way a critter feels in the presence of a wolf and a child does with their mother. I understood that I was only a visitor on Earth, as Skywoman in the Haudenosaunee tradition.

I walked through Spider Meadow, observing vibrant flowers in the grass and noticing the rustling of animals hidden in bushes. Although this place was full of life, with plants and bugs and trees and deer all around us, it seemed to me that the mountains in the distance were frozen as if stuck in a watercolor painting. I could see the rivers that ran down the mountainsides towards us but not observe their movement. Yet so much was changing. Just one mountain range over the forest was burning, and close by a glacier like the one that carved out this valley was melting into nothing. For me Spider Meadow was a place that embodied all these opposite themes.

—

Reflections:

My daily life has a jarring absence of nature. It is disappointing how many of my typical days amount to nothing but lines of code in a file on a computer. I decided to go on this backpacking trip in large part as an escape, to enjoy separation from this lifestyle.

In hindsight this motive is underwhelming. The significance of nature goes beyond the absence of human inventions, and wilderness is not a void but a place with its own unique character. Still, it was the absence of technology and timetables that allowed me to really think about my place in the world, and about the world without me. I believe that wilderness has historically been a place for thought to flourish for everyone who comes to it, even if they disagree with each other, from Henry David Thoreau to William Cronon to Robin Wall Kimmerer. This has only sharply increased in modern times, where the cacophony of phones, mass media, and urban life drown out my ability to think clearly. I believe this sentiment resonates strongly in my generation despite our diminishing participation in nature.

I worry that at times our, or at least my, appreciation of nature is too tokenized and far removed from the real soil, plants, and animals. I feel this way when I see green promotional material in advertisements or when I go car camping just to spend hours a day playing card games in the woods. While passively existing in nature does bring us plenty of benefits, for me the experience of doing nothing except actively focusing on nature brought an entirely new set of thoughts, and this was forced upon me by being in wilderness.

I think anyone else could gain the same benefits I got just by being in nature even if it was crowded and filled with technology, but it would take more discipline and focus. In a similar vein I do not think wilderness is truly necessary for our lives, as plenty of people live fulfilling lives with a connection to nature without being in it. The utilitarian in me considers how many less people per acre a national park in the wilderness helps than a public park in a city. And in truth, the miles of trail that come after the wilderness area sign are not very different from the miles that come before. Yet the biggest change that took place as I took my first step into wilderness was mental, and it colored how I viewed the whole world around me.

From being in wilderness, I gained a sense that my normal way of life is profoundly unnatural. I realized that so little of what I do daily is necessary or even beneficial for my survival. To be fair, surviving off dehydrated food in plastic bags and glissading down mountains is also quite unnatural, and natural does not even equate to good. Yet pushing my body and mind to their limit every day outdoors felt like I was doing what I was made to do, and I want to keep doing so after this trip. I thought back to daily life. I realized I chose to study computer science somewhat simply. It just clicked for me the fastest and with the least resistance. I can say the same for the clubs I have been a part of growing up. And I think that if my lifestyle is unnatural regardless, I should put more effort into choosing a path for myself. I have also gained a strong drive to seek quiet moments in nature wherever I am. While the lessons others learn from wilderness are unlikely to be the same as mine, I believe that everyone has something to learn from being in such a place.

From being in wilderness, I also felt a renewed sense that collective and systemic action on climate change is necessary to maintain these spaces. Being close to a receding glacier and a raging forest fire particularly made me feel this way, as well as the overall smoldering heat during the hikes. I see education playing a key role here, and perhaps by immersing our students in wilderness, or at least wildness, we can teach them to take care of it as they grow into adults. After reflecting on what wilderness has given me, I personally felt that I should pay it back in any way I could.

Although I find value in how wilderness demands physical activity, I doubt if it is helpful for its impact on the wider public. Not everyone is able to appreciate the wilderness we experienced, for a wide variety of reasons. Some of these reasons feel incredibly unfair to me, such as for those with disability. I also understand that expending thousands of calories over several days for an unnecessary recreational task can only be done by those with significant privilege. I also feel that in an America that is becoming increasingly multicultural, we need to do a better job bringing in those from all cultures and racial backgrounds towards wilderness. Seeing that almost all the other hikers we encountered on the trail were white gave me a greater appreciation for this. I wonder then if wilderness needs to be so remote and massive. I believe the ideas behind the Wilderness Act of 1964 can be applied to areas of land smaller than five thousand acres, closer to people living densely in the city who could use wilderness the most. Making a wilderness area in such a place may be somewhat artificial, but I believe that a park with native species maintained minimally to have the characteristics of untrammeled land with a lack of technology would have given me some of the same benefits I experienced in wilderness.

Overall, I am extremely happy I was able to go on this trip and that it was with such a great group. It has influenced me in ways that I can recognize and certainly in more subtle ways that I cannot yet see as well. I look forward to the next lesson wilderness can teach me, and I will also be doing my best to pay wilderness back.

This morning, we were up at the usual 5am we packed up and ate breakfast. I enjoyed my cup of coffee and then got ready to go. Instead of leaving right away we had a chance to get a drawing lesson from Claire. This was a fun opportunity to learn a new skill and I learned that drawing a landscape is a really good way to really take in the details of these beautiful landscapes we were exploring.

When we were all packed up and ready we began our hike up the snow field to Spider Gap. This part of the hike was technical and tough, to go up we used a technique where we sidestepped and crossed our legs. For me using this method required a lot of concentration with being conscious of each step, it took a lot of mental and physical energy to get through this stretch of the trip. We took a break before the last stretch of the snowfield, and I got an opportunity to collect a sample of watermelon snow for a research project being done at Washington State University. Watermelon snow is a phenomenon when snow appears pink, it is caused by a green algae species that contains a second red pigment in addition to chlorophyll. This species is a freshwater microalgae that grows in cold environments which is why they thrive in snow. After our break we did the final stretch and reached the top of Spider Gap.

The snow climb to Spider Gap (at another notch just beyond the notch in the photo). Photo by Claire Giordano

Kaija arriving at the gap. Photo by Tim BIllo.

Yours truly arriving at the gap. Photo by Tim Billo

Eloise climbing to the gap. All smiles, all the way! Photo by Tim BIllo

Nancy climbing to the gap. Photo by Tim Billo.

Shriya climbing to the gap. Photo by Tim Billo.

At the top we stopped for a short snack break to catch our breath and take in the view. Looking down at the valley we were about to cross we had an excellent view of the Lyman Lakes and the mountains that surrounded the valley. You cannot see it very well in this picture, but we also caught a glimpse of the summit of Mount Baker between other mountains.

Our team at Spider Gap, looking down to the upper Lyman Lakes. Photo by Claire Giordano

After we reached the top of Spider Gap the hard work was behind us, and we got to glissade down to Lyman Lakes.

Yours truly, glissading from Spider Gap down to Lyman Lakes. Photo by Claire Giordano.

The group glissading down to Lyman Lakes. Photo by Claire Giordano.

At the bottom of the snowfield, we stopped for lunch at a spot where we could see the Lyman glacier. Here we talked about the process of glacial recession and how the valley was formed, we also saw pictures of what the glacier looked like less than 20 years ago. I was shocked by how much the valley had changed and how significant the difference between the picture from 2006 and the glacier today.

Where the Lyman Glacier used to be. Only 100 years ago, we probably could have walked off the hillside onto ice here. 20 years ago, we would have seen a dramatic ice cliff here, calving into the lake. There is a tiny patch of ice in the middle of the snowfield that enters the lake. Photo by Claire Giordano

After lunch we kept hiking through rocky terrain, mosquito swarms, and more snow to reach the Upper Lyman Lakes campsite. This site was beautiful. We were surrounded by tall mountains and cliffs and the water of the Lymon Lakes appeared turquoise and it was something I had never seen. The Lakes flowed into one another generating incredible waterfalls between the lakes. The only problem with camping here was the immense number of mosquitoes. We stopped at this spot for a break and considered camping there, but we decided we would go to the Lower Lyman Lakes campsite where we were promised less bugs. If it weren’t for the mosquitos I would have loved to stay at this site.

Looking up the valley towards the remains of the Lyman Glacier from near the 1890 moraine. Photo by Claire Giordano.

The first big views of Bonanza Peak, highest non-volcanic peak in the Cascades.

We hiked a little less than a mile to reach the campsite at Lower Lyman Lakes. Despite this stretch being so short, and mostly downhill, it felt incredibly long and by the end of it I was certainly ready to take off my pack and jump in the glacial lake. However, the last stretch was worth the exhaustion as this site was by far my favorite during the trip. The lake was refreshing and the mountainous views surrounding us were breathtaking. This stretch took the longest, as we were hiking from around 10 am to 6 pm, and many of us were ready for a rest day. We ended our day with dinner and an engaging discussion about the reintroduction of grizzly bears into the North Cascades. I think this discussion was very interesting to me because I gained a lot of new perspectives on how we go about preserving biodiversity and when it is truly necessary when thinking about positive outcomes for both humans and nature.

Crossing the bridge at the exit stream from Lower Lyman Lake. Photo by Tim Billo.

After a refreshing swim by all, Tim gets out his fly rod to fish in the evening light. Cutthroat trout abound in the lake. Photo by Claire Giordano.

Kaija makes an animated point, in an evening discussion on grizzly bear reintroduction, led by Eloise. Alpenglow in the background. Photo by Claire Giordano.

Long-toed salamander appeared in the night, searching for insects on and around Tim’s tent. Photo by Claire Giordano.

For me this stretch of the trip was the most pivotal and the day I remember the most because of the extreme ups and downs. Parts of this day were simply incredible, the view at Spider Gap, glissading down the snowfield, jumping in Lower Lyman Lake, were some of my favorite moments from the trip. However, hiking up the snowfield and the final stretch of the day were some of the lowest moments for me. During this day of the trip, I learned about how backpacking is difficult and strenuous, but it is also fun and it is a chance to see the most beautiful natural landscapes that you couldn’t see on a day hike. This was my first time backpacking and I can say with certainty that this was one of the hardest things I have ever done, however I would go again. Seeing a view like the Lyman Lakes from Spider Gap was inspiring. The way you feel after accomplishing this hike and getting through a day like this, while carrying everything you need for a week, drives me to do it again.

Writing excerpt:

During our rest day at Lower Lyman Lake when we had alone time to write and relax, I thought about how powerful nature truly is. This is something we hear all the time but as I was sitting by a glacial lake surrounded by forest and mountains, I felt immersed in nature, and I thought about the complex and numerous processes that have happened and are happening to create this landscape. As we learned from Tim the valley, we were in is a u-shaped glacial trough, this shape is created by a glacier eroding the landscape uniformly into the U shape. Thousands of years ago the valley we stood in which was brimming with life, was entirely covered by a glacier. Today the glacier has nearly entirely receded and will likely be gone within our lifetime. The forest around us is standing and supporting life because of the complex interactions between animals, plants, microorganisms, and humans. But there is also an abiotic component, the weather, climate, geological processes, wildfires also determine how and if life will thrive in a given area.

As I look around the landscape, I think about how many events and processes had to happen for me to see this view, and I think about how much it may change during my lifetime. The glacier that once dominated this valley is now nearly fully receded and will likely be gone within the next 20 years.

However, because the glacier has receded and because the climate is growing warmer the extent to which the forest can grow up the mountain has grown, possibly bringing in new life to the area increasing its biodiversity. The forest in this valley may be completely burned by severe wildfire and left barren, I’m sure the forest has experienced such fires before. However, after fires secondary succession comes into place bringing new life and new ecosystem interactions, it may look different from before, but the forest will return.

Nature is not static and never has been, it is constantly changing and adapting, and it will probably keep doing so when humans are gone. The more I learn about the natural world the more impressed I am with the adaptability of nature. How do we keep up with the rapidly changing environment, how do we bring about the best outcome? These are questions that I worry about but as I sit in this valley I appreciate where I am now and though it may look different 100 years from now, of course it will. Nature is not static, not all change is bad, sometimes change is beautiful.

Reflection:

This wilderness experience was unlike anything I have done, despite many hiking and camping trips I have done across America’s diverse landscapes none of my previous outdoors experiences compared to this backpacking trip. It was difficult and grueling at times but after each day I was so happy to be there. I felt strong and accomplished and feeling that way at the end of a difficult day immersed in a beautiful landscape makes me want to do more backpacking trips in the future. Participating in this course has greatly increased my confidence in doing new outdoor activities. This week I proved to myself that I can go into the woods for a week and that I can do these difficult hikes with technical parts and that I can learn new skills and apply them.

Many parts of the course work challenged my way of thinking. Especially what we learned about National Parks, as I have spent time in many of America’s National Parks. Of course, I am aware that the National Parks sit on stolen land from America’s indigenous populations, I did not know that some of the parks removed Native American in order to be established. Parks like Yosemite, a cornerstone of America’s natural landscapes, removed Native Americans and kept them from doing cultural practices on their sacred land. Yosemite is not the only example as at the time Americans looked down on how Native tribes were changing the landscape. Now that these ecosystems that we tried to protect by creating these National Parks are collapsing we look to Native knowledge of the land and ask their help. They had different philosophies for taking care of land and instead of learning from them we removed them. This is a common theme across America and its history, and it has always led to negative outcomes. Learning about this aspect of National Parks has made me think more deeply about the history of the land that I now enjoy for recreation. I wonder what the landscape would look like if we learned from the Native Americans instead of dismissing and removing them from their land.

Despite the complicated history with National Parks, I do see immense value in these places continuing to exist, especially in the Anthropocene. Many of these places help people get outside and experience nature, which is critical to mental health but also to the environmental movement. The more people there are that care about nature the more people there are making more sustainable decisions. I think the biggest flaw with these spaces is that they are not accessible to everyone. The National Parks Service has not been doing enough to increase access to diverse populations. For these spaces to remain relevant and successful they need to increase accessibility and make a stronger effort to be more accessible to minority groups. There are many flaws with the National Park system in America, but they do have an irreplaceable part in a more sustainable future.

Another topic that I learned much more about that changed my viewpoint was the grizzly bear reintroduction. Before this trip if someone asked me what I thought about reintroducing grizzly bears to the North Cascades I would have said that they should be reintroduced without hesitation. I strongly advocate for supporting endangered species and ensuring that they do not go extinct as we are in the middle of a mass extinction. However, reintroducing grizzly bears is a much more complicated issue than I previously thought. There are a lot of different people that will be affected by this decision and there are a lot of reasons that these bears should not be reintroduced to this area. On a personal level I would feel a lot less safe on this backpacking trip if there were grizzly bears in the area. I am sure that many other hikers feel the same way. Because there have not been grizzly bears in Washington state for quite some time there is a problem with educating both hikers and people who live in rural areas near the North Cascades. If education is not done well, it will mean negative outcomes for both people and the experimental bear population being reintroduced. After our discussion I felt less inclined to support this decision, but I don’t think that I can confidently support one way or the other.

One part of this class that I appreciated was how much I learned about the world, not necessarily from course work but from talking to a group of people who came together to experience the wilderness and learn. Between discussions and just talking to other students on the trail I took away a lot of new knowledge about the world. Each student brought different experiences and different perspectives on the world. We came from a broad array of unique majors and goals in life, from social work, speech and hearing science, physics, history, and many others. Just from talking to other students about their studies I learned so much. Due to the diversity of the students’ backgrounds, we had very meaningful discussions which I was happy to be a part of. I think the biggest take home message I learned from this class was the value of diverse perspectives and how important it is to meet new people and learn all that you can from them.

Layover Day at Lower Lyman, by Kaija Koenigberg

Today was (thankfully) a day of rest. When we woke up at a lazy 6 AM as compared to our usual 5, we were greeted with a moderately relaxed morning routine sans packing up our tents and sleeping bags in a mad dash to get onto the trail before 9 AM. While some of the group chose to go on a day hike to better view the peaks that surrounded us at Lyman Lake, I, along with a handful of others chose to stay behind and rest. During a prolonged period of alone/free time, I found myself wandering across a small creek to the back half of the area at which we were staying. Here I found a US Forest Service supply cache, a murky pond that was almost certainly a popular breeding spot for mosquitos, and the small meadowed area opposite to where I had begun my day. Here I sat and started to write the poem I would later share during the discussion I was leading after dinner.

View through the trees to Lyman Lake.

The sun was intense, and so were the biting insects whose shadows would erratically buzz across my paper. I looked up towards the coniferous trees that towered above me at a more approachable height than others we had encountered this trip, and breathed in deeply as the relief of a cooling breeze intermittently swept across my sweaty face. After my poetry felt complete and the heat too much, instead of taking the roundabout path I had followed to get here, I decided to cross the “small” creek to my left in order to get back to Lyman Lake. I gathered my things, disposable camera and phone included (ominous foreshadowing), stepped confidently into the water below me, realized the creek bed was almost entirely made of clay, and immediately slipped into the glacial runoff. I was definitely cooler now, but pretty quickly remembered the sensitive and not so waterproof items I had in my pockets, so I threw them to the other side of the not so small creek and trudged across to meet them.

Mystery beetle with black elytra and red spots.

I eventually found myself back at the lake filled with an inspiration to better my fly fishing technique that Tim had introduced to Anaëlle and I the night prior. He had kindly left his pole leaned up against a small larch near the shore, so I armed myself and began wading into the crisp turquoise waters of Lyman Lake. Each step sent a slow moving, silken plume of debris from its center, leaving a trail of muddy brown in my wake. As I watched the clouds of clay swirl and unfurl over and within each other, I imagined that this is what massive dust storms must look like from above, that the unsuspecting fish nearby were swimming in confused terror, unaware of what lay within the murk that quickly consumed their home. I continued out until the lake bottom suddenly dropped off, and began to flick the line back and forth to my side. I had mentioned to Tim the night before that I thought this technique would work better than the more vertical one he had been teaching me, and I was right, which makes sense in hindsight, as his cast was bound to go further than mine since he is a man taller than 6 feet, and I, no matter how confidently I wear it, come in at a measly 5 foot 2 in.

Perfecting my cast. Anna swims in the background.

For the better part of an hour, if not more, I practiced my cast. Back, forth, back, forth, release, and the line would tangle itself. Back, forth, back, forth, back, forth, release? No, that wouldn’t work, it keeps catching or not going far enough out… Eventually, after many failed attempts, before I whipped the pole out behind me, I traced an infinity symbol to my right, bringing the line to a horizontal position, and cast it. Back, forth, back, forth, the line whizzed past my head, back, forth, release, the sharp whir of the pole’s spinning reel erupted across the quiet water, and the line flew far towards the center of the lake before me. I could feel the pride ripple throughout my chest, and I was met with a familiarity I hadn’t felt in a while. My grandfather on my mom’s side loved to fish, and one of the few memories I have of him was on a fishing trip in Minnesota when I couldn’t have been older than 5. While I’m not sure if he ever fly-fished, I bet the sense of accomplishment that this activity provides is quite similar, no matter the difference in poles.

I ended up only catching one fish that was about the size of my pinky, but the stillness and awareness I felt knee deep in those waters were quite unforgettable. Tim said that fly fishing is one of the most primitive forms of modern fishing that is widely accessible today, however that term “primitive” in this context is not a bad thing, even though that word usually holds that connotation. In this case, primitive means simpler, closer to what it once was, like lighting a fire when we’re cold or looking at the position of the sun to determine the time of day. I think I felt closer today, I think I felt closer during the majority of this trip. Not sure to who or when or even what, but definitely closer.

A creek I found while exploring around camp.

Me leading my evening discussion on the feminization of nature. It is a very serious topic, but we still managed to have some laughs. Photo by Tim Billo

Eloise voices an opinion. Photo by Tim Billo.Refusing “woman”

I know why they call you Mother,

your meadowed belly ever fertile,

your children bright and many,

your bosom safe and warm.

I know why they call you Woman,

for your strength will ever wound them,

they will poke and prod and stab you,

yet curse you when you bleed.

Do you know what they call women?

Those of which they cannot tame?

The women, who just like you,

refuse their poisoned hand.

They call our women

bitches,

compare them to the rot,

spit upon their sacred womb,

and take what theirs is not.

They dominate

and lie

and steal,

burning who and what don’t please them,

yet in their tyrade we must recall

that we’re the ones who scare them.

How evil for a woman pure

to mingle with her Mother,

her tinctures meant to heal our wounds

must surely be the devil’s.

A witch, the sea, our meadowed Mother,

why must we bare this burden?

To carry life,

to carry sin of men whose wombs are barren.

I light your brush,

and you burn free,

we cleanse your forest floors,

and as we burn

and heal

and sing,

the flames will catch their doors.

This is the poem I wrote while sitting by the creek I mentioned earlier in this reflection. I wrote this piece with the feminization of the natural world in mind and the negative connotations that this association has resulted in. These ideas and themes are also what my discussion centered around later that evening. While I wrote this piece, I continually made efforts to be present with the land around me, and observe the ways in which natural life can present itself in a more matriarchal/feminine manner. I would watch the way the trees moved in the breeze, the pattern of the birds that sang above and across me, the ways in which I felt held and comfortable by simply sitting in plush grass next to a clear, flowing stream. I felt her in many ways during those moments, but I also felt more than that. I felt a transcendence from what we can define as gender and sex, I felt something greater and much more complex than what can be truly understood and shared by humanity. Yes there is a divine femininity to this land, but in a wildly different context than the ways in which American or colonial femininity has come to be within our current system. I know I don’t have a solution to this complex and deep rooted issue, but it was an interesting path to follow, and I was pleased with where the path led me.

How has this wilderness experience changed or affected you personally? Feel free to provide specific examples from your experience that may have contributed to these effects. 2) What were the biggest take-home messages or learning experiences (academic and/or personal)? Think about how it challenged you physically and mentally, or how it forced you to think differently, or how it made you feel. 3) What is the purpose or utility of wilderness as a physical space and/or a concept, in the Anthropocene (this human dominated epoch we are now in)? Feel free to be constructively critical as necessary. 4) What do you feel is the future of wilderness and/or wilderness national parks?

Over the course of a week in these natural and frankly “wild” spaces, I felt myself shift in more ways than I previously thought possible for a 7 day time period. I not only met and interacted with essentially 12 strangers, but quickly and wholeheartedly bonded with each of them on the trail. I was beyond scared and pushed to my limit, yet scaled and descended a section of trail that was almost entirely comprised of switchbacks and loose rock. I cried out of fear and for joy and for loss, and above all else I felt boundless. Not once did I have to worry about wearing my headphones or earplugs to better manage moving and existing in a space, social pressures that continually drain and confuse me weren’t present, and the unending chatter and distraction of being a modern human were finally still and quiet. While my conclusions may seem derivative, perhaps it’s because it is an incredibly human and unifying experience to feel the freedom and relief that these spaces allow.

I took this course because I wanted and hoped to feel small, and I did. I felt so incredibly unimportant and minuscule that for the first time in months I could feel myself truly exhale. I could exist without burden or shame because I don’t matter. Not in the sense that I shouldn’t be here or that my actions or words don’t have consequences, but more so that I can truly be human. I can be terribly imperfect and make stupid mistakes, because that is what I was designed to do. I can do what makes me feel happy and whole and it doesn’t matter how incredibly huge or incredibly insular my impact on this world is. I matter to the little parts of my world as much as a singular spider matters to a streetlight and the insects it attracts. I am not without meaning or importance, but the entire fate of the world does not rest on my shoulders, and inversely, the entire world does not determine my own fate. I am important but I am also not, and that is a beyond liberating thought for me, I’m not sure if I can fully/properly explain it.

I think spaces such as the “wilderness” we experienced this July are beyond valuable to both the human and non-human worlds, but I also think that our definitions of “wilderness” are greatly limited. It’s no secret that national parks and nationally recognized wilderness are largely inaccessible to those who are mostly non-white, lower income, or without reliable transportation. This makes spaces such as these dominated by a certain type of person and a certain type of experience. While I do believe these areas deserve and require respect and conservation, I don’t believe that their continued maintenance is achieved through bigoted exclusion and near segregation. I think a lot of work needs to be done to not only open these spaces up to more people than the average white, able-bodied, middle class individual, but to also educate and fully welcome these communities into these previously gated off and outright hostile areas. I am not sure how all of this can be achieved, but I do think true collaboration between those already fluent in these natural spaces and those who desire/deserve representation within them is crucial for it to happen.

Spaces that are “wild” provide sanctuary to both non-human and very human beings in and outside of modern day society. They give homes to essential species that are too fragile to coexist in urban and suburban spaces. They allow for ecosystems to flourish and self-sustain while also being the setting for research imperative to a regenerating and mindful future. They also provide peace and healing for human minds that need a moment or two of calm. While there are many complex and not so savory layers to the “wild” world, there is no denying how incredibly meaningful these areas are for all human and non-human beings. They deserve to exist, no matter how that existence might take form, and we deserve to experience them, if we can do so with the true humility and smallness that is essential for these spaces.

Releasing a cutthroat trout back into the lake in the dying light.

Hike to Cloudy Pass, by Eloise Schell

On Wednesday, the third day of our hike, Tim gifted us an extra hour of sleep, which was a welcomed change from our routine 5 am call time. Despite a wild windstorm that battled with the walls of our tent through the night, the morning was perfectly peaceful. Made even more so because we were staying at the same lakeside campsite for another night, meaning that our responsibilities were cut in half. Without having to do so much as roll up my sleeping bag, I made my way out and joined the others for a quiet morning looking out over a glacial lake, surrounded by snow capped peaks.

With no backpacking miles to do, Tim offered us the option of staying around camp or doing a day hike up to Cloudy Pass to catch a glimpse of Glacier Peak. Even with wobbly legs that had not yet recovered from the long hike the day before, I decided to join Anaëlle, Kayla, Dru, Bill, Nancy, Tim, and Claire to go see the namesake of the wilderness area we were enjoying. Just as we were ready to set off, fueled by a warm breakfast, a pair of volunteer rangers ventured down the trail. A perfect teaching moment had just walked right into our campground, so we postponed our departure and gathered around to hear about the lives of a married couple who live off the grid in the wilderness for weeks at a time. Among other things, they gave us their opinions on the reintroduction of grizzly bears to the Glacier Peak Wilderness, told us about how they get pit toilets into wilderness areas, and explained the basics of proper campfire maintenance. (Since you’re probably wondering, the abbreviated version of their responses were “it’s complicated,” “we backpack them in,” and “don’t start a fire outside of an established fire ring” respectively.)

Here is a photo Claire Giordano took of us with the rangers before we headed out for our hike!

After our impromptu lesson, we set off down the trail we had arrived on the previous afternoon; this time much lighter on our feet with only water and lunch in our packs. Tim led us up a series of switchbacks, periodically stopping to point out cool discoveries like the poop of a tunnel dwelling rodent that was covered in a speckled fungus along the trail. I enjoyed this trek through the woods but was delighted when the thick forest spit us out into a green meadow dotted with wildflowers. Only a few steps into the meadow, Tim made another discovery, but this time of a living rodent: a marmot! Like a dedicated bunch of outdoors people, we stopped and looked at the marmot with binoculars, taking pictures, and talking to him as he stood on his two back legs trying to size us up from his burrow. As we continued along the trail, he turned to watch us, surely grateful that we hadn’t come any closer.

At the top of the pass, we looked eagerly for a trail that the rangers had promised would lead us to the perfect view of Glacier Peak. Though we initially overshot it, our mistake led us to a glorious first view of the mountain which, as its name suggests, was almost completely covered in glaciers and snow. We backtracked and eventually found the lightly used trail that led us up to a perfect lunch spot: on a green patch, with a view of Glacier Peak. That was certainly the best view I have ever had while eating a bagel.

Around noon we made our way down the same way we came up. After a quick dip, or for Anaëlle a full on swim, in the icy water we gathered for two discussions. Anaëlle led the first discussion of the afternoon on wilderness therapy. The topic evoked strong reactions from the start, sparking a thoughtful discussion about why wilderness therapy has failed so many teens. Some of the points included concerns about teens not consenting to treatment and being abused while there, as well as the lack of professional qualifications among employees of the programs. The discussion then pivoted to focus on how wilderness and green spaces could be more effectively and ethically embedded into therapeutic practices. After a short break, Dru began leading her discussion about Native American philosophies around giving back to nature. It began with everyone listing ways that they give back to nature, however, we noticed that some of these examples, like recycling, were more about mitigating our negative impact rather than truly giving back. She then led the discussion towards appreciating how some indigenous communities have dedicated significant efforts towards ecological restoration. Dru discussed the work of the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation, who are working to restore the ponderosa pine forests on their reservation through controlled burns. Both discussions brought about fruitful conversation that connected deeply to the wilderness lands we were visiting.

A Memorable Moment:

The second to last night, which we spent at Larch Knob, felt especially leisurely. After hiking all the way back from Lower Lyman Lake, we still got to the site early enough for lunch. Throughout the afternoon we finished two discussions, made dinner, and Kaija, Kayla, and I even got some time in to practice our impressions of the sounds rocks make when they hit the water. The only thing that could make the day even better would be to do some leisurely stargazing. Some of us had seen the stars during midnight bathroom runs, but those trips were rushed for fear that there was probably a bear lurking. Someone ended up making a light suggestion that we cowboy camp, without our tents, to get an unobstructed view of the stars. However, no one was jumping at this idea, likely due to the relentless nightly assaults by mosquitoes. Instead we discussed staying up to look at the stars before going to sleep in the safety of our tents, but no one thought that they could manage to stay up until dark. We settled on convening at 1am for midnight stargazing instead.

Just as promised, 5 tents worth of alarms went off at 1am. Almost everyone joined, crawling out of our tents to see some of the most incredible stars I have ever seen, despite a settling blanket of smoke. Tim even got up with us and directed us towards a W-shaped constellation, which he instructed us was Cassiopeia. East of that was the Big Dipper. On the other side of the sky, the three stars of Orion’s Belt shone brightly together. Even though I can only identify three constellations, I love everything about looking at the stars. I especially love an unobstructed view of stars, with no buildings or tall trees keeping portions of the sky concealed. I think I am especially drawn to them because stargazing is such a special treat if you live in the city. In Portland and Seattle you have to travel to escape the glow of the city. On Larch Knob, looking down onto a plush meadow and up to snowy peaks, it felt like an extra special treat. This was particularly memorable because it was beginning to feel like the trip was over. After we left Lower Lyman Lake and hiked back along trails that we had already covered, something felt distinctly different. This little gathering was a sweet way to spend our second to last night and begin to celebrate the completion of our trip.

Reflection:

This trip watered the seed of outdoors-person-confidence in me, which is now a little seedling eager to keep growing. I planted this seed as a kid, exploring the nature around me while gardening with my grandparents and hiking with my family. As a teenager, I took up bird watching with my dad (though he is much more skilled than I) and walked around my neighborhood watching it change through every season. Though I love my family and deeply appreciate their impact on my relationship with the outdoors, this trip felt like I was taking a step to forge my own relationship with nature that I will continue to nourish. It provided me with the time, tools, and vocabulary to rethink some aspects of my human impact on the world. Even though it was a short trip, I feel like I am significantly more invested in cultivating a strong relationship with nature than I was before, and like I now know more about what that means for me.

However ironic, this trip to the wilderness made me realize how much more I can connect with nature from my own life in the city. During our hike, I reflected on the feeling that the nature in the wilderness was somehow more valuable than the nature around my apartment. Upon further reflection, I do not think that this conception of value benefits my relationship with the world around me because, when I’m in the city it leads me to feel separated from the “valuable outdoors,” ultimately detracting from opportunities I have here to connect with and give back to the living world. I am also seeing that this perspective shift has changed the light through which I see many of my routine outdoor experiences. Gardening, for example, is something that I do often, however, I have never before conceptualized this as having a reciprocal relationship with the Earth and have really appreciated exploring this perspective. It has even challenged me to walk more slowly on my way to and from school, appreciating greenery and natural elements scattered among the concrete and apartment buildings.

Wilderness is a great place to reflect on ideas like these. It is a place where humans take a humble backseat to learn from and appreciate all the things the world has done and continues to do without our intervention. It also offers a type of quiet and escape that is so rare, which fosters feelings of reflection in and of itself. These feelings are some of many reasons why wilderness is important and also why we should work towards bringing more of it to us, in the city. The future of wilderness spaces will rely on people being exposed to and appreciating the beneficial aspects of nature. People will not magically see value in the things they have never experienced themselves. So many wilderness areas are difficult to access, especially without ample time and a car. By creating more opportunities for outdoor exploration and breaking down the conceived separation between the “true outdoors” and urban green spaces, people will have more opportunities to cultivate their own relationships with and appreciation for nature from within the city limits. These experiences may or may not translate to an interest in exploring natural areas outside of the city, but will certainly increase the likelihood that people, even those far removed from designated wilderness areas, will care about wilderness preservation. As more people congregate in urban areas, we cannot bank on the breathtaking views from distant hikes to persuade the public to care about the future of natural areas, we must integrate nature and natural elements into our communities.

Lower Lyman Lake, framed by the trees. The turquoise blue hue is due to the glacial silt in the water. Photo by Anaëlle Enders.

Our starting point for the day and turnaround point for the hike was Lower Lyman Lake. The sun rose and cast a gentle light on us as we struggled out of our tents, visited the outhouse (a wooden toilet in the woods poised over a deep hole), and munched on granola. I knew today was going to be a long one. Since our whole crew had descended into the valley before, we knew how steep the trek was going to be to get back up to Spider Gap and Larch Knob, our camping site for the night. We woke up extra early (4:30am instead of the usual 5am!) so that we could avoid the hours when the sun was the strongest. To start the day off right, we had a dance and beatbox circle and then got on the trail.

*See the dance circle here! https://photos.app.goo.gl/5W3EY3drQM8gMN2RA

The waterfalls surrounding Larch Knob gradually multiplied throughout the day with the hot sun. The heat wave was doing its work. Thankfully, we had no shortage of rushing water. We refilled our water bottles with Sawyer filters and iodine tablets whenever we needed with cold snowmelt water. One thing we learned to watch out for when hiking on packed snow is that there are a lot of ways the snow can be melted from underneath, making it unsafe for walking. Rocks heat up faster in the sun, so snow around them is weaker. Also, the waterfalls often flow underneath the snow and erode it, so we had to watch out not to hike close to snow that had waterfalls near it.

Looking down to Upper Lyman Lake as the sun comes over the ridge. Photo by Claire Giordano.

Heading back up to the Lyman Glacier basin as the sun crests the ridge. Photo by Tim Billo.

Same place as picture above. View looking in the direction of our hike. Photo by Claire Giordano.

Silhouetted against the snow as we approach the climb to the gap. Photo by Claire Giordano.

That’s me, past the Upper Lyman Lakes and beginning the climb up post glacial rubble to the start of the snow. Photo by Tim Billo.

Water break by the iceberg choked uppermost lake. Photo by Tim Billo.

Beginning the climb to the gap. We are still in the shade of the ridge. Photo by Claire Giordano.

Trapper’s tea growing on the post-glacial rubble. A strange location for this plant, the only one we saw on the trip. Photo by Tim Billo.

Three kinds of heather growing side by side. Photo by Tim Billo.

A tip for making the upwards climb go faster: sing! Armed with my karaoke playlist and a lot of willing singers (and some unwilling ones), we side-stepped up the icy snow, zig-zagging and carefully placing our feet exactly in the footprints of the person ahead of us to make snow stairs. Here’s a video of us singing Dancing Queen:

Dancing Queen video:  https://photos.app.goo.gl/9tahPzkYtEbma51L6

Starting the snow climb, Anna in the lead. Photo by Tim Billo.

Ascending the pass. Your truly in the yellow bandana in the lead. Photo by Tim Billo.

Onwards and upwards to the beat of Dancing Queen. Photo by Tim Billo.

The pass is in sight! Photo by Tim Billo.

Some more views from the hike up to the pass. Photos by Claire Giordano.     

Finally, we reached the top. The view from Spider Gap was still as stunning as the first time. We could see Lyman glacier, the glacier that had carved the entire valley that is now almost completely gone due to climate change. Comparing even with pictures from the 1980’s, the shrinkage was immense. What once was a vast field of snow and ice that led straight to the glacier was now rock and heather. I can’t help but wish I could have seen the glacier earlier. Yet I feel lucky to have seen it before it is completely gone. Maybe people in the coming years will wish the same as me.

It was also from our viewpoint that we could see what Claire Giordano, our resident artist and volunteer leader, captured in the strokes of her watercolor painting of the entire mountain range. She had painted a panorama the day before from our hike to Cloudy Pass with a view of Glacier Peak. The striking red, purple, and gray rock of the mountains contrasted with the bright white snow against the cloudless blue sky. Shadows lead the eye into the surprising green carpeting the Spider Meadow valley, almost fluorescent, fringed by darker green coniferous trees.

Claire with her panoramic watercolor creation, at Spider Gap. Photo by Claire Giordano.

Shriya at the pass. Photo by Claire Giordano.

Now my favorite part: Glissading! Glissading is a mountaineering and alpine climbing technique where you slide down a snow or ice slope as a faster way to get down the mountains. It’s like sledding except without the sled! Holding an ice ax diagonally across my lap, my heavy pack on my back, I slid down the slopes. We took turns glissading and cheering each other on. Here’s my sketch of how cool I felt after glissading that day:

My journal depiction of me, fully covered from the sun and mosquitoes, hiking poles in my hands and ice ax in my pack. I felt like I could take on anything.

Video of Eloise glissading on the way down from Spider Gap: https://photos.app.goo.gl/GKN14EKNAc2LpRQd9

At last we reached our destination, the familiar Larch Knob. Setting up camp this time, I felt more sentimental, knowing we would have only one more night after this. I was finally used to carrying a pack on my back and my feet no longer rubbed in my boots. I could set up a tent now and knew how to stay hydrated. Being comfortable with these aspects of living in the wilderness made it easier to be present with friends on the trail, wonder about specific plant species, share life stories, and play games like “guess what movie this quote is from”. Our dinner and evening discussions led by Bill, Nancy, and Shriya were accompanied by a strong breeze which drove out mosquitoes. Yay! We crouched around in a circle, sitting on our bear cans and made plans to wake up at 1am and stargaze together. It had been a long day but I was surprised at how quickly it went by. It wasn’t just my backpacking abilities and walking feet that got me there, but a team effort that led us to appreciate, observe, and live with the wilderness around us.

Sunset light from Larch Knob. Photo by Claire Giordano.

TASK 2:

As part of my Ad-Hoc Honors project to complete a nature journal throughout the trip, I had the privilege of getting to tag alongside Claire as she painted. I heard about Claire’s work before the trip and was so excited at the possibility of having an art mentor. Claire teaches watercolor classes and so easily explains how to capture the personality of a tree, and allow the colors to blend together in rocks. One thing she emphasized was that practicing creativity doesn’t mean anything has to be perfect or precisely accurate, saying, “This is a record of your fascination! If you want an exact replica of the mountains, take a picture.” I felt like that freed me from expectations of perfection in my art as I practiced painting.

As someone without formal training in art, the thought of painting every day was so intimidating! I caught myself more than several times on the trip feeling anxious as I stared at the blank page of my watercolor journal and wondered how to fill it. But then I reminded myself that nothing has to be perfect, and it is simply a record of my fascination.

My watercolor of Glacier Peak, from Cloudy Pass.

When we were able to hike to Cloudy Pass from Lower Lyman Lake on day 5, it was my first time to see the famed Glacier Peak! It was even more covered with snow than I had imagined. The hike up wasn’t too difficult. Tim’s whistle apparently sounds like a marmot, so we saw several standing at attention, guarding their hills. As our hiking group stared at the peak in a distance, Tim pointed out Cool Glacier and Chalk Glacier that sculpted the sides. Funny enough, but I hadn’t even brought my painting supplies with me, only a light water bag on my back and a snack. Tim had the foresight to bring an extra watercolor set, so I borrowed his and got to work while the rest of the crew ate lunch. I’m so glad that Tim brought his watercolor set because I think this painting is the one I like the most of the mountain paintings I did. When I see it, I can transport myself back to that exact moment on Cloudy Pass. I remember how fascinated I am by Glacier Peak, the sloping valley, and I remember that the mountain range goes on. It’s easy to forget that there’s actually more mountains beyond us when we’re in the valley and can’t see beyond the red and purple range surrounding us. This is a reminder of my smallness in the vast expanse of nature. And when I look at it here, back in Seattle, I know that the mountain is still there, the ecosystems are still in cycle, the marmots are still popping up out of their dugout homes.

TASK 3:

Something I noticed from our journey is that when confronted by a majestic and sweeping landscape, it’s a lot harder to be self-absorbed or caught in the worries of life. Our city life is individualistic. “Get your assignments done. Find a job to make your money. Stay on top of your schedule.” Being away from screens takes away all the noise of life. For me it was such a relief to be out of contact. My phone battery lasted so much longer being on airplane mode the whole time, and I felt like my personal battery lasted so much longer too. I had more energy to be present with people in conversations, I could observe with more alertness, and I had more patience and determination to persevere.

Before this trip, I hadn’t been backpacking for more than one night. I wouldn’t know how to look up a trail, know how to plan for my food, or do a number of things that helped keep us safe and energized. For me and for many others, to be able to look down a slope that I just climbed gave me an unbelievable sense of giddiness. I had never done anything like that before! I didn’t know I could! Too often I stay in the limits of what I think I can do rather than believing and risking a crash-landing failure. This trip offered more of a safety net knowing that we can take care of each other, which gave me the courage to do things that were harder, like taking on extra weight in my pack for the group and hiking faster when needed.

Our nightly discussions struck me as a unique and impactful exchange of ideas.  One example is when Shriya led us on the Romanticization of Nature. We all seemed to have a spectrum of different opinions, yet it felt like a window into another world for me when I learned about Shriya’s love of 20th-century American novelist Ernest Hemingway. I have never read this author before and from what I know I would differ with a lot of his ways of seeing the world. However, through the conversation I felt able to step out of my own shoes and appreciate the walk in another’s.

When we all gathered together for the final discussion, I resonated with what Kaija brought up about appreciating the feeling of smallness. Individualism often reigns in the fast-paced life of Seattle, but here it doesn’t. Here, the waterfalls flow, we go to sleep with the sun, and there are no screens to keep us from noticing the pikas scramble over the rocks. The mountains feel big and wise, sustainers of the life bursting from it. When I see the mountains and the stars, I can’t help but feel small.

Still, the anthropocene is evident. It was on the 6th day from Larch knob that I could see a visible difference in the skyline before and after we climbed. The second time, there was a haze settling over the mountains. Our lungs felt the difference. Fires in the Chelan area were blowing over. We learned after our trip that fires have since closed down both the Trinity and Phelps Creek trailheads. We were very lucky to have made it when we did, in the small window unaffected by fires.

Thinking ahead to the generations that will follow us, I believe one of the purposes of wilderness is to show people that there is nature bigger and wilder and more powerful than themselves. Often in our bubbles of climate-controlled environments, it’s good for humans to feel the forces of nature. Humility is found in realizing that we are human and need shelter, food, water, and community like anyone else. Simplicity can help us remember what our core values are and to pursue them when things are not so simple in life.

Getting to meet the forest service rangers who volunteer in the area helped me think about the longevity of the wilderness. Clearly, for wilderness to maintain its “untrammeled” status requires a good deal of management and service. They spoke about how people have gotten better over the years at dealing with trash (they used to find burned cans in firepits) and there are still issues with people not knowing how to not leave a trace when in the wilderness. It was a surprise to hear about how many people don’t dig a hole when they relieve themselves in the woods.

My hope is that people will get better at respecting the spaces and wildlife, especially as they learn how crucial it is for the wellbeing of both humans and nature. Getting to research nature’s impact on the brain psychologically has left me wondering why it isn’t more mandatory for schools to take kids on nature trips, even around the city. I’ve found myself trying to find more time to be outside, appreciating green spaces all the more because of our trip’s impact on me. My friends can testify to the times I’ve talked about how even proximity to a green space, like a park, reduces risk of physical ailments such as heart disease.

For the future of wilderness to continue, I believe people need to be better educated on how to honor wilderness spaces, and how the nature at home needs to be honored just as much.  Cronon’s article about how the tree in the backyard is just as worthy, has just as many stories as the tree in the wilderness is one huge takeaway for me.

I’ll leave off with a few lines of a poem I wrote while on the trail:

I floated in the freezing glacial melt today

Allowed to rest, enjoy, and grow

Instead of university housing,

I’m surrounded by tall, swooping mountain cliffs

The boat-trafficked waters of Seattle

Are foreign to this alpine lake

They seem so different,

but there is no divide between these mountains and our hills at home.

How can I honor and care for the nature in both places?

Stepping stones, rough, uncut

Lead the way to cross this river

I take care where I place my feet

A delicate dance between me and the frigid waters

I’m a rough, off-balanced excuse for a partner

I accidentally step on green buds poking out of the rock

My heavy pack threatening to tip me like a domino

But nature has proven forgiving

I stop

Trying to get to my destination

Trying to control the elements for my decisions

And find

Surprising resilience

A good and generous teacher,

If I’m willing to listen

And dance along

On Day 7, we faced the final leg of the most challenging routes. I woke up mentally refreshed after a night of rest, but my body felt like it was shouting and screaming in protest. Every muscle ached more than ever before, but I had to push myself to get moving. As usual, we aimed to start the trail early to avoid the heat of the day. As I geared up, covering every inch of skin from the sun, I prepared myself mentally for the difficult descent ahead. This daily ritual of preparation had become almost meditative, helping me calm my nerves and focus on the task at hand. I realized that this journey had not only tested my physical endurance but had also strengthened my mind. Despite the pain, I found myself encouraging and reassuring myself, knowing I could power through the day.

As I packed my gear, I noticed a newfound confidence in my abilities. Over the past week, I had become more adept at packing efficiently and quickly, a stark contrast to the struggles I faced on Day 1. It was surprising how fast I had adapted to the rhythm of wilderness life. This growing familiarity with the routine was a source of pride and a testament to my resilience.

Saying goodbye to our campsite at Larch Knob, and goodbye to the snowfields.

As we began our descent, I felt a pang of sadness at leaving the glacier behind. Heading down to Spyder Meadow meant saying goodbye to the pristine, icy expanses that had defined much of our journey. The prospect of warmer temperatures brought mixed emotions. The last time we traversed this route, the heat wave and rocky, steep terrain had made for a grueling experience. However, this time, descending from Larch Knob, I was greeted by a breathtaking surprise. Despite having passed this way five days earlier, the landscape had transformed. The heat wave had caused the wildflowers to burst into full bloom, painting the meadows in vivid hues. It felt like nature’s reward for our perseverance, a vibrant display that lifted our spirits and made the arduous journey worthwhile!

Phlox, one of my favorite wildflowers seen on the trip that smells like roses

We arrived at our campsite around noon, just in time for lunch. Speaking of which, I must give a special shout-out to Courtney for preparing such amazing meals for us! By gathering a pre-trip food survey to understand everyone’s dietary restrictions and preferences, she cleverly divided us into different food groups and crafted a detailed meal plan. I couldn’t image the effort and organization required to pull this off. Reflecting on the food we enjoyed—tacos, spaghetti, tom kha, and rice noodles brimming with meat and vegetables—I was pleasantly surprised by the diversity and deliciousness of our backpacking cuisine. I had never imagined that food on a backpacking trip could be so varied and flavorful!

Afterward, Tim led us on a fascinating flower tour in Spider Meadow, identifying the various wildflowers that thrived in this subalpine environment. Coming from Taiwan, where such flora is rare, I was amazed by the density and variety of flowers that could grow here. This unexpected lesson added a layer of wonder to our journey, reminding me of the beauty and resilience of nature.

Wildflowers on our wildflower walk in Spider Meadow. Photo by Tim Billo.

Elephant head lousewort, one of the coolest looking flowers on our wildflower walk. Each blossom looks like a tiny elephant head.

There was a grasshopper outbreak in the meadow. The grasshoppers seemed to prefer to congregate and munch on the young flower buds of corn stalk lilies.

I saw a black-tailed deer in our campsite.

That evening, Tim, Courtney, and Claire led a reflective discussion about our journey, providing a valuable opportunity to contemplate the entire experience. I felt deeply grateful for the chance to immerse myself in the wilderness and engage in such thoughtful conversations. These nightly discussions had become a highlight of the trip, offering profound insights and making our adventure even more meaningful. Each reflection session inspired me, adding depth to the physical challenges we faced and fostering a sense of connection and growth within our group.

Highlight of my trip: Swimming in the Lyman Lake!

Growing up in a subtropical country, I always found Seattle to be incredibly cold. The idea of swimming in lakes filled with melted glacial water seemed unfathomable to me. However, after days of intense outdoor activities, covered in sweat and dust, and finally reaching the Lyman Lake campsite on Day 4, I felt mentally prepared for this challenge. The sight that greeted me was breathtaking: a light blue glacial lake set against the backdrop of towering glacier-covered mountains.

The heat wave had warmed the water, making it less freezing than I had feared. Stepping into the lake, I was struck by the unique texture of the glacial clay beneath my feet. It felt like real clay, smooth and pliable, yet it was formed by the relentless grinding and crushing of rock by the moving glacier. This natural process broke down the rock into fine particles, creating the clay that now soothed my tired feet.

As I waded into the water, the coldness washed away the dust and sweat, and I felt a profound sense of healing. The serene beauty of the lake, free from the incessant buzzing of mosquitoes, provided a rare moment of calm and relaxation. The swim was more than just a physical cleansing; it was a mental rejuvenation, a chance to connect deeply with the stunning landscape around me.

This experience was particularly memorable because it shattered my preconceived notions about the cold and discomfort of glacial water. Instead, I found solace and renewal in its embrace. The combination of the majestic scenery and the refreshing swim left an indelible impression on me, reminding me of the unexpected joys that nature can offer when we are open to new experiences.

Reflections:

This wilderness experience has been transformative in countless ways. It has reshaped my understanding of physical and mental endurance, deepened my appreciation for wild spaces, and connected me with passionate individuals committed to environmental sustainability. As someone relatively inexperienced in backpacking, I initially found Tim’s comprehensive packing list daunting. The extensive inventory triggered anxiety, making me worry about potentially overlooking a crucial item. Despite my dedicated efforts to improve my fitness through training workouts, doubts about my physical stamina persisted.

In preparing for the trip, I spent considerable time researching how to minimize the weight of my gear. This process was an enlightening journey into the intricacies of backpacking equipment, teaching me about the delicate balance between cost and weight. I learned to distinguish between essentials and conveniences, ultimately streamlining my belongings to the bare necessities for the eight days ahead. This experience, the longest backpacking trip I have ever undertaken, felt like a monumental challenge that I was determined to conquer.

This wilderness adventure has fundamentally changed me. Physically, it pushed me to new limits, forcing me to rely on muscles and endurance I didn’t know I possessed. The steep climbs, challenging descents, and the constant push forward despite fatigue were all tests of my physical and mental fortitude. I recall a moment when, climbing up Spyder Gap, despite my exhaustion, I powered through a particularly steep ascent, fueled by a determination I hadn’t previously recognized in myself. This moment was pivotal, highlighting the capacity for strength and perseverance that lay dormant within me. Each day brought a new challenge and a new triumph.

Mentally, the trip offered a profound space for introspection and reflection. The daily routines, quiet moments in nature, and deep discussions with the team allowed me to contemplate my relationship with the natural world and my place within it. The discussions led by each team member were especially impactful. These sessions, where we shared our thoughts and feelings about the relationship between humans and nature, added significant depth to the physical journey. They encouraged me to reflect on my personal connection with nature, my goals, and my place in the world. This reflection made me realize the vital importance of wilderness to humanity, beyond just recreational purposes.

During the evening sessions, I also discovered that our group was formed by individuals who genuinely care about the environment and share the same environmental sustainability concepts as I do. This was a stark contrast to many people I encounter in my daily life, where environmental protection often feels like a mere slogan rather than a practice. This sense of shared values and commitment to the environment further enriched the experience, reinforcing the idea that collective efforts can make a significant impact.

One of the biggest take-home messages from this trip is the importance of wilderness in our lives. In the Anthropocene, where human activity dominates the planet, these wild spaces are more crucial than ever. Initially, I thought wilderness areas existed primarily for human enjoyment, as a break from the pressures and noise of city life. However, this experience taught me that these spaces are much more. They offer a refuge from the hustle and bustle of urban living, a place to reconnect with nature and ourselves. Beyond that, they are vital ecosystems that support biodiversity and contribute to the health of our planet. Protecting these areas is not just about preserving them for our enjoyment but about ensuring the survival of countless species and maintaining the natural balance of our world.

The future of wilderness and national parks is a topic of great importance. These spaces must be preserved not only for their ecological value but also for their ability to inspire and rejuvenate us. To ensure their continued existence, we need sustainable management practices that address both environmental and social factors. Conservation strategies must be put in place to mitigate the impacts of climate change, pollution, and human interference. Seeing the old glacier photos that Tim brought and comparing them to the current glacier, I could truly see the impact of climate warming. The melting of glaciers was heartbreaking, highlighting the urgency of our efforts. We also need to make these spaces accessible to all, breaking down barriers and ensuring that everyone has the opportunity to experience the beauty and tranquility of nature.

This wilderness adventure has been a journey of self-discovery, reflection, and growth. It has taught me the value of endurance, the importance of nature, and the power of community. As I return to my everyday life, I carry with me a renewed sense of purpose and a commitment to advocating for the preservation of our natural world. The lessons learned and the memories made will continue to inspire me for years to come.

This post begins with a summary of our Day 7 hike, and ends with reflections. Descriptions of wildflowers on the stretch from Larch Knob to Spider Meadows are sprinkled throughout. I have bolded the names of wildflowers.

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We woke up bright and early on July 12th to begin our descent down from Larch Knob back to Spider Meadows. My acrophobia from the ascent up had been nerve-wracking, so the morning of the descent my anxieties were extremely high. 

Our panoramic view from Larch Knob down to Spider Meadows below.

Relieved to be returning to the flat lands and flowers of Spider Meadow, after 4 days in steep, rocky, and snowy terrain. The trail picks an intricate path through the cliffs in the background. The waterfall descends from Larch Knob. The panorama above is looking down from a vantage point near the top of the waterfall.

Looking back on Spider Meadows on Day 2 of our hike, unaware of how difficult the hike to Larch Knob would be.

While we all ate a cold breakfast of granola and cold coffee, Tim and Courtney went down the knob to drop their packs and assist us with the hike down. Tim set up some rope lines along the more exposed, steep drop offs, and Courtney held up the rear of the group and cheered us on. We read a few inspirational quotes from Tim’s paper, and took off down a steep and scary hike down. 

I was surprised when my feet hit the trail that it wasn’t nearly as scary as I had imagined in my head. In fact, I ended up trudging ahead of the end of the line, and enjoyed a medium pace between the fast group and the slower group. This part of the day was one of my favorites, as I got to feel like I was kind of hiking alone. After almost a week of being surrounded by people, this seclusion was a welcome break and allowed me to clear my mind.

Spreading phlox, Phlox diffusa. Photo by Nancy Gau.

While I was hiking down Larch Knob, I could distinctly remember looking at the wildflowers that colored the cliff-face. In particular, I stopped to smell the Phlox which was fragrant and very attractive to the bees. The sun was pretty intense on the trail down the knob because there was no tree cover.

When we made it down, we still had a fair amount of distance to go before we could get back to our campsite at Spider Meadows. However, we dropped our packs and took a small detour to see the Phelps Creek Basin. 

Phelps Creek Basin with Sitka valerian in foreground.

Phelp’s Creek Basin with pink mountain heather. Photo by Tim BIllo

The views were stunning! I was able to do some easy bouldering on the large rocks deposited by the glacier. It was so satisfying to dip my shirt in the river and put it on, feeling the breeze on my wet skin after hiking in the sun.  

Finally, we put our packs back on and hiked down to our campsite. 

Picture from the first time we did this stream crossing, right near the border of the meadow and the woods at the foothills of the mountains around the basin.

We did another stream crossing, and hiked through the meadow. Compared to the first day we were here, the wildflowers in Spider Meadow had totally opened up. I noticed the breathtaking reds, pinks, purples, whites, and yellows crowding my line of sight. While hiking down to our campsite surrounded by these flowers, I decided to ask Tim if we could check them out later in the day after we set up camp. He agreed!

We set up camp and had a long and sumptuous lunch. As we were on our last day, we no longer had to ration our food; we could eat as much as we wanted. We went in the stream nearby our campsite and cooled off some more and relaxed before our final discussion. 

However, prior to the discussion, Tim, Nancy, Kayla, and I went for a short walk through the meadow to identify the wildflowers. 

First, we found some Elephant Head Lousewort. 

Elephant head Lousewort. Each flower looks like a tiny elephant’s head.

In addition, we saw SO many species of flowers under the Aster family. We weren’t entirely sure on the identification, but we likely saw a Cascade Aster.

We also saw Arnica.

Arnica (yellow) and valerian (white) dot the meadow.

And Yarrow, which I don’t have a good picture of.

We also saw Red Columbine flowers, which was a topic of great interest to a chunk of our group who were from Colorado, which is famous for the blue columbine. 

Kaija with a Red Columbine

A very ubiquitous plant in this meadow that provided for much of the green space was False Hellebore or also known as Cornstalk Lily.

Cornstalk lily covered with aphids. Some plants were patrolled by ants who were “milking” the aphids and protecting them. Hover flies abounded in the meadow, likely seeking aphids on which to lay their eggs.

An outbreak of grasshoppers, which seemed to prefer munching on cornstalk lily.

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Finally, we saw a lot of red paintbrush flowers! These flowers have a tube-like structure and bright red color that attracts hummingbirds. The hummingbirds suck nectar out of the tubes which allows pollen to get stuck on their bill, chin, crown, and other surrounding areas. We even took a taste from the flowers and got to try the sweet nectar that lies inside the tubes. 

Harsh paintbrush (orange) and scarlet paintbrush (red) in the same view.

Paintbrush amongst the Sitka valerian.

Evian leads the last academic discussion beginning with our formative encounters with nature in children’s literature we were exposed to as young kids.

After our small wildflower tour, we listened to Evian’s discussion, and followed that up with dinner. We had a nice dinner of pho and lots of giggles and chats to go with it. 

Queen’s cup lily, or Clintonia, a forest flower viewed on the hike out the next day.

Sharing our final reflections on the trip.

We wrapped up our day with an extended final discussion about our time in the wilderness and what it meant to us. We had a special guest join us: a deer! You can spot the False Hellebore in this image below her feet.

Deer spotted on our last day

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As I think about my time in the wilderness with a few weeks of ‘regular life’ under my belt to compare, I think I can amend and expand upon my initial contribution to the group discussion. 

Initially, I tried to treat it as an extremely revelatory experience: one in which I found creative and spiritual inspiration. As someone who loves to write but has been suffering from a long stint of writer’s block, I went into the trip with hope that it could reignite a creative flame. However, I left the trip with little creative work, only a poem. 

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Here is the small poem I wrote on the trip:

If Nature was a human, we would have had Him hung. 

With the mischief of an entitled schoolboy and the delicacy of a nimble hand suturing a wound,

Nature bleeds immortality and arcane.

But what one must realize about so called witches or heathens, those which we put to death in our earlier years of society and fear

It is not them, but rather, how their identity glints before our eyes.

Nature would not be hung for his intrinsic power or magic.

No, He would be hung for what he means and represents to all.

My poem is about how nature is not valuable to us just for its physicality, but also what it represents to us as humanity. Nature as a concept is wholly different from the physical form of nature. Thus, my poem was me reflecting on how powerful it is in its mysticism. It’s open-ended and leaves the exact ‘meaning’ of nature up to interpretation.

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As my regular life has resumed, I’ve begun to think more of my time in the woods. It hits me more so now than before, the beauty of the wilderness. So similar to my favorite writers like Hemingway and Crane, I have a nostalgic and romanticized retrospect. And amazingly enough, I finally have been feeling an itch to write. I think that the change in scenery really helped me gain an appreciation for a landscape that I do not get to experience in my day to day life. And personally, I have lots more creativity than I did before I went on the trip. 

For me, I have taken away that wilderness in the Anthropocene serves as a means to take our lives to simplicity. When you’re backpacking, you are reduced to your most primal duties as a human. Eat, sleep, move. It’s a steady rhythm and routine that is a stark contrast to the overstimulation of ‘regular life.’ Moreover, the wilderness allows for us to curate a completely different skill set of living than for living it city life. Because of this, there is such a distinction between how we live in the woods versus how we live in urban environments. I think that’s why it has been so creatively enriching to look at my time in the wilderness in retrospect. I’ve learned about a completely different way life can be lived.

However, I have also realized that my ability to draw a distinction between wilderness life and city life is from a place of extreme privilege. I think accessibility is something that needs to improve in ‘outdoor culture’ and naturalism. Most people who are able to go outside and experience nature at the capacity we did on this trip have to have money, transportation, and time. We were on U.S Forest Service land, so it was more remote compared to many NPS owned areas. National Parks could perhaps do a better job at making backcountry camping and hiking accessible to anyone with a car. Gear exchanges sponsored by NPS and government resources could provide people access to gear at a heavily subsidized cost. Moreover, I think the NPS is a big way people can get involved, as it is one of the more well-funded government organizations for wildlife management. Perhaps with more attendance and accessibility to NPS facilities, we can even get more funding to National Forest Service managed areas, and make those more accessible as well. 

Being able to experience the wilderness is a very transformative and important experience that many people could benefit from. I believe that those with less-privilege will actually benefit more heavily from access to the wilderness, as it is away from societal ideas of ‘privilege’ to begin with. For example, those with lower incomes will have less access to gear and most likely work long, stressful hours. Someone with a minimum wage job would benefit very greatly from time outdoors as a chance to slow down and escape.

I also think that the future of wilderness is tied with Indigenous philosophies of the land. With more education of First Nations peoples cultures, customs, and philosophies, our connection to the land can deepen and be more meaningful. Taking away Western ideals of capitalism and exploitation alleviates a lot of the issues that arise with conservation. In addition, we can understand the culture of the land. I think that understanding the culture of the land is going to be one of the biggest tenets of the future of wilderness, and will only be a reality if we listen to native peoples. 

The wilderness is a transformative space that is undeniably important to sustain our social, emotional, and physical health. If we can move forward with sensitivity and curiosity about the natural world, we can preserve it for future generations to enjoy. 

The group assembles for one last photo at Spider Meadow before the hike out. Note the jackets and sweaters. The mountain heatwave from the start of the week had broken, although by the time we get to Leavenworth later in the day, it was 100 degrees. Evian Adams is not pictured. Photo by Claire Giordano.

The final hurrah! It is a bittersweet morning as our trip is near its end, and we prepare to return to our urban lives and loved ones. Photo by Claire Giordano.

An electric buzz coursed through the camp — everyone was more motivated than I had seen in the mornings before. The excitement of going home to our loved ones, pets, and showers was palpable. If you looked long enough, glimpses of hesitancy could be spotted, giving away the complicated and conflicting feelings bubbling below the surface of eagerness. I don’t doubt that my face displayed the same. The previous night’s discussion had been mine, and quotes from it swirled in my head as I worked to pack up my stuff. We had talked about placemaking, in social work often seen as altering the environment to reflect components of you or engaging in meaning-making in the experiences you have in this new environment. Courtney had pointed out how we were having this discussion on land in which we actively work to leave no trace — highlighting how removing ourselves made the place, and granted others the opportunity for the same experiences we had. Here we were, packing up, removing all traces of ourselves, from a place in which we had made meaning.

A black-tailed deer makes an appearance as we head out of camp. Photo by Claire Giordano

I joined the others in the camp kitchen area, the electricity of eagerness growing stronger and more intense. It was like standing under power lines — you could feel the strength of an invisible force pulsing through every nerve in your body as humans harnessed a force of nature. Everyone had made friends with one another, and there was strong group camaraderie. Even so, some bonded more closely to specific people. It’s only natural, and the level of group cohesion was a testament to the powers of our environment itself. Yet, today there was no evidence of any budding cliques or bonds which surpassed others. Everyone chatted with everyone with such fervor and intensity that the desperation which underlie threatened to erupt to the surface — the desperation to not lose these bonds in the face of the end of our journey, to maintain a hold on any piece we had gleamed during this period, to have something tangible of a time we all knew we couldn’t bear to forget. Much like standing under those power lines, you could feel the threat of a possible death looming above you — death of a cultivated experience, a captured moment in time. The moment in which the present transitions to its new role as a memory. Courtney called out our remaining time. In between her role as Group Clock (and not a cop, as she would insist as she threatens to leave you behind), she too was getting swept into the current that set our souls alight.

A carrot dangled in front of us, adding wings to our feet and hands — Leavenworth. Few of us hadn’t been, some of us had and couldn’t wait to return, all of us were eager for the salty, greasy pub food that was ubiquitous in the town. You only had to say the town name and suddenly people found the drive to fly — our packs, which had strained us, were frantically packed and thrown on with a force that threatened to throw our fatigued legs out from under us. Leavenworth was an excellent carrot — it was excitement, a change of pace from the parts which we bemoaned, but it wasn’t the end. It didn’t signify the journeys conclusion in which we returned to our homes, our little bubbles of isolated existence that, had this opportunity for this class and trip not occurred, would have prevented any of us from knowing one another.

Our bags were packed. It was just past 7 am. We’re late. We hustle off in a line and stop before we even make it out of the campsite — a black tailed deer was walking through, looking at us unconcerned. We all verbally recall the night before, the fairytale moment during the discussion when a deer came wandered by within 10 feet of us. It felt like a perfect analogy to make a bittersweet send-off: We were the closest with wildlife just before we had to go. We continued on the trail before stopping not even 0.4 miles in to take off our fleeces, much to Courtney’s utter exasperation.

We continue through the forest, the landscape starkly changing as soon as we exit the wilderness boundary — the growth of the trees was significantly younger and stunted, creating a sparse appearance that suggests a more recent history of logging, and the presence of invasive species increases. Courtney checks in with Tim and the rest of us on whether we’d like to expedite our pace to hurry to Leavenworth — the carrot of liminal space — and we all agree. We hustle and begin to joke about using military cadences to keep pace. Kaija and others begin to chant “left, left, left right left…” our voices and laughter filling the ever-increasing sparseness between trees. Claire’s words from the night before echo. “Just as art is an act of hope, so is going into the wilderness — even as we lose them in our time…We are emissaries who tell our experiences to inspire others.” We march onward towards our newfound responsibilities as envoys. My classmates seem unperturbed by this, hustling along with pep. The difference from being an MSW student seems at play here as I feel the known weight of advocacy sit upon my shoulders. I try to shake it off for now and focus on continuing on. We sing songs and play games, guessing what movie quotes are from. This has a notably different feeling — we aren’t singing and playing to distract ourselves from pain, heat, or exhaustion. The current of eagerness is what powers us, the spark igniting our pace and exploding us into an invigorated and exhilarating state. The significantly lighter backpacks help, I’m sure.

We make it to the trailhead, taking a moment to breathlessly cheer from excitement, and split into trucks, heading down to where the van is parked. We split again and get into the van, heading out. I’m driving, and I see Claire and Tim drop off behind us out of sight. I take the opportunity of being out of sight to fly down the forest service roads. I am reminded of my days in search and rescue, zooming down these same rocky, dirt paths we call roads, and note how different the nature around me felt. “How much of it was due to climate change, and how much due to a new perspective?” I wonder. I speed up. We’re late. My comment in Larch Knob discussion comes to mind – how wilderness can be an escape from ourselves, such as the pressure I put on myself when I’m residing in the West to not let my ADHD-induced time blindness make me late again. I commented on how Westerners always rush around to fit this defined schedule that western society demands, built around the days of industrialization and factory work. Unlike home, I can’t operate on “Arab Time.” We haven’t even hit cell signal or paved roads. I become acutely aware that I have already returned to defaulting to schedule urgency. We left a place that we actively work to prevent change in — to cultivate this artificial stasis and deny the ever dynamic reality that is the world, including natural world, around us. It also works in the inverse direction: we prevent it from changing ourselves. I am reminded of Cronon, highlighting that the distancing of ourselves from nature, through a focus self-contained wilderness in far off regions, means we neglect the wildness in our cities and fail to give ourselves the opportunity to learn to live sustainably. It’s harder to feel compelled to change to preserve an abstract idea than the very neighborhood we reside in. I am racing not just to Leavenworth, but right back to living disconnectedly, in a bubble where the ramifications of my choices are obscured. The speedometer doesn’t waver. It’s not a mirror of my thoughts, but of my actions.

Rocky, dirt road gives way to pavement, which gives way to highways and buildings and cars. Courtney remains far ahead of us, and Tim catches up. We continue our drive, looking at the rivers, forests, and mountains around us and marveling at how we just came from these places. This other world is in our backyard. We are the children who, in our play-pretend, turned our yard into fantastical lands filled with monsters, magic, and wildness, convening with our playmates on how our game should go. As we grew, so did our backyard, and we continued to create these lands with our playmates in Congress. We all spot a large class of kayakers learning the fundamentals of whitewater in the river, and as we relish in our assumptions of their joy (which really is just a manifestation of our own), conversations turn to what we want to do next.

We arrive in Leavenworth and Tim’s cautioning about “culture shock” and “post-trail blues” comes to mind. I feel the familiar rage and frustration at other drivers and tourists as I creep the car through crowded streets in search of parking. The sun is blisteringly hot. I joke that choosing to go to a tourist town during peak season immediately upon leaving the wilderness is “playing on hard mode.” I am uncomfortable with how quickly I went from concern and camaraderie with my fellow person, known or not, to apathy and frustration. Convenience becomes the priority, not teamwork in an environment where our the evolutionary success from our social cohesion and tool usage is spotlighted.

We get to Stein and are greeted with air conditioning and shade from the oppressive sun. There is so much noise that threatens to overwhelm, but all of us are too hot, hungry, and tired to care. The smell of fried food permeates the building. We all order and dive into our food as it arrives. Some of us become sick from eating so quickly. There isn’t much time to explore, but some of us manage to get some ice cream from a nearby shop, carrying our sources of dopamine in tiny cups as it melts in the heat wave. Our discussion on biophilia — the innate desire for humans to be in nature — pops in my head, with facts about the mental benefits of seeing nature, and what it means as we lose ecosystems to climate change. Sea ice doesn’t fit so nicely into tiny cups – for now. We get into our cars and continue our drive home, many of us fully falling into our habits of society while refusing to think about what we will do once we go our separate ways back at campus.

We batter the seek button in search for sounds of entertainment long missed, laughing and joking about whether we’ve earned more stations, equating them to our ever encroaching civilized lifestyles. The news of the Pennsylvania rally shooting comes on, and our expressions of joy vanish as we glance at one another. Silence overtakes the car, our voices and laughter replaced by familiar, detached speech patterns of news reporters. The casualty toll is recounted, and the uncertainty of a political figure’s fate is announced to, presumably, a nation of listeners. We had certainly returned to civilization, but civilized lives were not part of that. I turn the station knob and country music from a previously skipped over station blares through the speakers, messages of patriotism echoing in the car. I turn the knob again. Some sort of jazz funk comes on. The conversation remains lulled. The writings of romantics and transcendentalists, influenced by the dreaming of the lost pioneer days, preaching abut the wilderness as a means of escaping society, echoes in my head. I weigh it against authors who write of nation-building through wilderness. The irony of same nationalism surrounding much of the wilderness movement being found in the country song after gun violence at a presidential campaign rally is not lost on me.

This experience was as cultivated and artificial as the wilderness itself, and just like the wilderness, we built authentic and personal meaning from it. Today I sit in my MSW courses listening to land acknowledgements and reading about white supremacy and a culture of repair. I think about the land and all the stories it holds: of forced removal, starvation, genocide, slavery, and of resistance, revolution, and activism. I wonder what reparations look like to the land itself? Land back. Sovereignty. Stewardship. But what of reforestation? Green spaces? I ride the light rail, one not built by Chinese Americans denied rights, citizenship, or acknowledgements, and one with which we connect communities through — breaking down, piece by piece, historical segregation. I pass community gardens, not tended to by enslaved African Americans, whose forced labor the entirety of the American economy rested upon and benefited from, but which feed the communities we once (and still do in many areas) starved. I look at trees planted in walkways and strips of parks tucked between neighborhoods. I see our own wilderness, right here, just as much as in need of tending. I see our communities, right here, just as much in need of preservation and the environment to thrive. Bit by bit we are making reparations to the land itself, and to all the peoples and communities whose silenced stories of exploitation and injustice act as the foundation of our country’s creation, existence, and national narrative. Of course, white supremacy, colonization, and their associated systemic oppressions still permeate our culture. As I get off the light rail and sit with my MSW classmates, I see not just hope, but a guarantee — there will be people who move us forward towards a different, better reality. They, and so many others, are part of the long arm of history, forming the trellis that will bend it towards justice.

I have pursued a social work degree for years, earning for my Bachelors and soon, Masters. I have been a passionate advocate for environmental justice. I have lived and breathed our trails, waterways, mountains, and wilderness. Until this trip, with these classmates, these faculty, these readings, this course, I had not merged these worlds. I had, just like with wilderness, drawn arbitrary boundaries of distinction and meaning. Yet all these pieces are inextricably intertwined — woven like baskets, threads, narratives told by our elders. There are no neat categories with which one can ethically live, no matter how temptingly comfortable it is.

The wilderness, as it exists today, is one strategy of many. When I think of community organizers or the Social Change Ecosystem map, I think of all the different organizations and roles that come together to form complicated relational webs. Interconnected pieces that build a movement; necessary change. It can teach us: humility, respect, self-awareness, self-criticism. It can show us other ways to live, what we can do without, what we value, what we need for joy and to thrive.

But the wilderness alone is a failure. Its a living embodiment of colonization, with the removal of indigenous peoples (both physically and narratively) required for its creation. Many boundaries fall upon land that was once cared for by enslaved peoples’ hands — holding the legacy of generations of violence. It embodies a movement which relies upon fences and borders, limits and restrictions, and far away places — excluding all but the most privileged, and denying value to what exists here in front of us. It’s no coincidence that our national parks, our outdoor recreation clubs, or our hobbies are all very, very, white and middle class. Except the conservation movement hasn’t learned all the new tricks that our white supremacy culture has: It can’t adjust to continually be sustained without conscious thought. Unlike supremacy culture, the conservation movement will fail from not willing a popularity contest. It cannot hold up a privileged few and continue to succeed. It must change so we can change.

We cannot erase the legacy of colonialism, but we can re-write the future. Indigenous tribes already acknowledge they cannot possibly patrol and enforce the thousands of acres of wilderness— they rely on the support of the U.S. government. They can, however, be of equal voice in decision making. We can shift the dialogue from protecting fragile nature to stewarding a resilient landscape. Wilderness can become the ground zero in which we reshape the modern environmentalist movement to embody environmental justice, melding in the components of collective responsibility, equitable burden and benefit sharing, and both accountability and reparations.

Wilderness can become place where we practice honoring the value of the natural world — whether it’s a tree in the backcountry or a tree lining our sidewalk — and cherish it. Where we practice collective and collaborative decision making where the communities and members most impacted are centered. Where we can see our place within nature, not separate for its own protection. Where we learn true tenants of sustainability, in which everything thrives and all of our needs are met without taking from all which comes after us (human or not).

Wilderness can, and must act as just one component in the broader change — while wilderness can become ground zero for the shift in the modern environmentalist movement, the environmental justice movement is already underway in our communities. Our communities collaborate to form community gardens, nourishing themselves and the pollinators and wildlife around them. They transform dilapidated, abandoned lots of concrete and garbage into green spaces to lower city temperatures and bring shade and wellness to their neighborhoods. The movement often relies upon principles of mutual aid — solidarity, resource sharing, reciprocal relationships, empowerment, collective community care. If the environmentalist movement can bring these principles into wilderness, then the wilderness can prove any of us can join the shift towards envisioning and creating a world in which we all thrive.

If the wilderness must stand as the pinnacle of a movement, then it better hold the values needed for a better future. Otherwise, it will remain the living embodiment of a legacy of injustice, cruelty, and shame. If we want to continue to perpetuate the notion that wilderness embodies all that makes America great, then it needs to actually embody that — hundreds of years of oppression and brutality isn’t it. Our ability to reach across communities, connect to people so very different from us, and collectively lift one another up is what makes us great. Let wilderness show us that the American Dream doesn’t have to remain a myth backed by white supremacy, but a genuine future made possible by the collective care and responsibility of each member of this society.