Traveling to the other side of the country on my own to go backpacking when I had never left my homeland of the South was a big step for me, to say the least. National parks and conservation movements are far from prevalent in and around my Alabama birthplace, so I was drawn to the prospect of immersing myself in the sprawling horizon of the Rockies, with its lush mountains overflowing with life. I felt that leaving what I know behind in search of a new perspective was the key to enriching my approach as a pupil of the natural world. Upon beginning my journey through the Bob Marshall Wilderness, I became very close with my coursemates, feeling like a member of a wonderful, caring family. I felt assured to know that, no matter where I go, there is a kind face and supportive shoulder to be found.
However, as I trekked through this brilliant landscape, my mind was pulled elsewhere. I had entered this experience carrying a deep seeded sense of guilt that gnawed at my chest. This haunted feeling that accompanies great opportunities, a ponderance over what I am to do with the privileged position I am in to be able to go on such an expedition. I am extremely aware of how inaccessible my career path is to many, and I would have never been able to pursue it if I had been dealt a different hand, a different support system, or a different seat in the global hierarchy. I have always reckoned with this reality, and my approach has thus far been to try to accomplish as much as possible, tripping over myself as I try to walk down every avenue at once.
So, as I found myself at the foot of mountains that marked millions of years of geologic time nestled next to a sea of coniferous forest and elk tracks, I was surprised to feel my heart keep swimming downstream. In every familiar wildflower variety, in every brief stint of hot, rain-thick weather, I saw home. I saw the South. I dubbed this lurking feeling a side effect of the expected homesickness we were all feeling and continued on. But in my class discussions and meetings with guest speakers, I felt a flicker in the back of my mind. It was there when we spoke of systems thinking, and my friend Althea mentioned how she studied the urban layout of her home in Wisconsin and met with city officials for coffee to help incite change where she saw fit. It was there when we met with local rancher, Jim Stone, and he told us of his work towards supporting community members and landowners in Montana to create a tight knit network of people with differing histories to nurture biodiverse terrain like that of his own. There was a gleam of pride in his eye as we stood with him in the rolling hills of green, his love of his home and passion for propping up the voices of the people living on the land inspired something previously subdued within me. In my haste to explore all that the earth has to offer, I had lost sight of just how much I could learn from my own homeland, however disconnected from sustainability frameworks it appears to be.
I think conservation is often (understandably) fueled by guilt and grief for what we can not ourselves control. I am so thankful for this course and the lessons it has taught me about embracing learning as a participatory process, not one of outside observation. I’m grateful to have been taught that I am an expert in my own experience and about the importance of forming my own personal understanding of the land that holds me. These lessons have allowed me to fuel my conservation work with love and forgiveness. I unfortunately had to leave the course early, but I most certainly did not leave empty handed. On the drive back into town and away from the warm and unflinchingly welcoming embrace of my course group, an instructor named Ash told me that as we begin to de-center ourselves and look towards trying to better the world around us, it’s easy to get overwhelmed by all of the terrible pains and losses and broken systems that persist in every corner of the world. Even still, we must focus on where we are and what we can control. As I looked out the car window at the flashes of Montana countryside flying by, I couldn’t help but recall the familiar writings of my favorite poet, Mary Oliver:
“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”
