guest column

Boots, Not Bikes: A Protest for Wilderness

By Jill Beauchesne, Guest Writer, 7-26-08

I’m not the type of person who gets off on confrontation.  Usually, I’ll play peacemaker—if there’s an argument, I try to help everyone see another point of view.  But I’ll be honest—when a few friends and I decided to hold a mini-protest in the middle of a proposed wilderness a few weekends ago, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.  In fact, I was almost surprised—I didn’t feel nervous at all during the conflict.  I felt light, present, and charged.

The Garfield Mountain Roadless area, more commonly called the Lima Peaks, is located in the Beaverhead-Deerlodge National Forest in southwest Montana and is proposed for recommended wilderness in an ongoing forest plan revision process.  It is a remote, amazing piece of land.  Rolling hills of unbroken sagebrush give way to aspen stands and rocky peaks, native westslope cutthroats pile up in dark, clear pools, and hundreds of wildflower species color the basins in spectacular hues. Moose, elk, mule deer, mountain goats, wolves, and coyotes call this area home.

It was late when we left Missoula on a Friday night.  We planned to sleep at the trailhead, wake early, hike in six miles, stay overnight, and fish and walk out seven miles the next day.  We stopped to fill up our gas tanks in Dillon, where an article in the local paper caught our eye.  We weren’t going to be alone in the Lima Peaks.  A group of mountain bikers, the Montana Mountain Bike Alliance, planned to ride in the Garfield Mountain area in order to protest the pending wilderness recommendation.  We weren’t happy about having to share the trails with the group, and, moreover, we weren’t happy about the intent behind their ride.  We soon took matters into our own hands, laughing and tearing up a cardboard box.  We were going to have a protest of our own.

The concept of designated wilderness is a fairly new one, by human standards.  In comparison to today, for eons every place was “wild.” Of course, any steady human or animal presence in an area has an impact.  And, as agriculture took hold, man cultivated crops, built bigger cities, and changed his landscape even more.  We all know the story—for centuries nature has been understood as a “thing” to be utilized for human benefit.  Plants were selected, hybridized, and re-planted year after year.  Animals were eaten and worn.  In the 20th century, man’s “use” of the land reached new heights with the advent of contemporary technologies.  Mining and drilling wreaked permanent havoc on streams and landscapes.  Commercial fishing boats drove clear cuts across the ocean floor.  Mountaintops were blown off as companies scoured the earth for coal.  Hundreds of animal species went extinct.  Glaciers melted.  And then, a few decades ago, we decided that we didn’t want all “wild” places to disappear.  Hence, the Wilderness Act of 1964, meant to protect certain areas of the country, areas “where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain.”

The Montana Mountain Bike Alliance is not opposed to wilderness.  They are simply opposed to losing access to beautiful, technical trails that appeal to their particular sensibilities.  When an area like Lima Peaks is placed into proposed wilderness, mountain bikers stand up, organize, and try to fight the impending loss of a remote riding opportunity (even if few riders actually use the area).  It’s a normal reaction—yet it’s not one I can agree with.  Their protest seemed, for the most part, largely symbolic.  Even after issuing a press release and a call for riders, the group only had a dozen or so bikers on hand for the weekend ride. 

But whether Lima Peaks is actually frequented by mountain bikers or not, I feel a responsibility to protect its particular and vulnerable ecosystem.  I believe we face a sheer necessity for wilderness in 2008.  We cannot re-create these unique places once they are “found,” once they are visited so frequently that their otherworldly essence disappears.  A wilderness designation places an area beyond the realm of human influence and value systems.  Wilderness is not about recreation opportunities.  It is not about placing hikers over bikers in some hierarchical system.  It is, for the most part, about letting a place be.  In the words of Aldo Leopold, “Mechanized recreation already has seized nine-tenths of the woods and mountains.” I argue, I urge, I implore, that the wilderness designation for areas like the Lima Peaks is absolutely imperative.  When we, as citizens, elect to set aside pristine areas of our nation as wilderness areas, we are electing to think outside of ourselves.  We are learning that nature should not be objectified—for wealth, for enjoyment, even for experience. We are joyfully reminding each other that other beings have a right to relative solitude—whether that being is an alpine forget-me-not in bloom after a long winter, or a moose calf learning favorite trekking routes from its mother.  Personally, I believe in increasing limitations in wilderness areas—if it were up to me, I’d remove all grandfathered grazing rights.  I’d forbid aircraft from flying over wilderness spots.  I’d forbid any write-ups of praise, any guidebooks.  Radical?  Sure.  But I firmly believe in the need to let things be—and, in an area like the Lima Peaks, things are functioning pretty well as they are.  Let’s recognize the fairly intact ecosystem that’s in place.  Let’s celebrate a remote, gorgeous spot by letting it go—by saying, I love this place so much I am willing never to see it again, if it means it might just stay exactly the way it is.

So, I stood on a hillside holding my protest sign as the mountain bikers rolled by (some riding, some walking their bikes), and I couldn’t help but smile.  It felt good to put my belief system on display smack-dab in the middle of a place I loved, in front of people who might not feel the same way.  Sure, I’d been “active” before.  But instead of sending an email from my desk, writing a check, or sporting a T-shirt, I was standing in the Lima Peaks, fighting for proposed wilderness, and, in my mind, for all wilderness.  So fat chance, Fat Tire.

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