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Frontier Learning

Frontier Learning

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I’m just starting Wallace Stegner’s Beyond the Hundredth Meridian: John Wesley Powell and the Second Opening to the West and am captivated by Stegner’s observation of the haphazardness of learning on the frontier.

I knew books were scarce; teachers, too. But Stegner riffs on this “homemade learning” and how boys (and they were mostly boys then, of course) were often captivated and bent by the first man of learning (and they were mostly men then, too) they encountered.

The closest books Abraham Lincoln could borrow were 20 miles away — and they belonged to a lawyer. The closest books John Wesley Powell could borrow belonged to George Crookham, a farmer, abolitionist and self-taught man of science. Crookham collected science books, Indian relics and natural history specimens.

So “[w]hen Wes Powell began to develop grown-up interests, they were by and large Crookham’s interests,” Stegner writes. Powell went on to explore the Grand Canyon and to champion the preservation of the West — all of this with one arm; he lost the other in the Civil War’s Battle of Shiloh. (Powell was a major with the Union forces.)

I think of us now with more influences than we know what do to with. Libraries at our fingertips. Information bombarding us day and night. Would we climb on a raft and venture down uncharted waters? Well, I know what I would (not) do. How about you?

A Walker in the West

A Walker in the West

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Back home now with newspaper headlines and Metro commutes, deadlines and responsibilities. Gone are the open road and limitless horizon, the buffalo and prairie dogs, the thin air and snow-covered peaks.

I took almost 800 pictures, my notebook is full of little things I want to remember: Potato Museum and Miss National Teenage Rodeo Queen. Gentian, Indian Paintbrush and other wildflowers spied on a hike. The rocks labeled on the drive through Powder River Pass: Granite Gneiss, Pre Cambrian, three billion years old, Bighorn Dolomite, 450 to 500 million years old.

But what I most remember isn’t in the notebook. It’s the view of Lone Peak from 8,500 feet. It’s the TR Park ridge trail on a perfect summer morning. It’s looking out over a huge emptiness, buttes in the distance, no roads, no cars, nothing but sagebrush and scrub land.

How different it would be to walk in the west. How various the views and insights. Travel, like walking, is a great restorative. Travel and walking — well, that is hard to beat.

Little Walk on the Prairie

Little Walk on the Prairie

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It wasn’t hard to find the Buffalo Gap trail. Just step out of the Buffalo Gap Guest Ranch, walk around the semi parked by the fence and start strolling. You can turn either left or right, the ranch owner, Olie, said. You’ll find 75 miles of trail in either direction.

I didn’t make 75 miles, barely two. But I walked long enough to pick up some ticks and a little sunburn on my shoulders. Long enough to grab some wild sage and rub it between my fingers. Long enough to look around and see grass, grass, grass, and feel a part of that buzzing, blowing world of vegetation.

Of Buttes and Badlands

Of Buttes and Badlands

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Theodore Roosevelt Park, North Unit

Theodore Roosevelt Park, South Unit (panorama shot)
View from TR’s cabin

Yesterday’s adventure was Theodore Roosevelt Park, visiting the cabin where the 26th president lived and wrote and seeing the places that inspired him to become an ardent conservationist. 

The buttes and buffalo, the badlands and the grasslands. It was a perfect, blue-sky day with fluffs of cottonwood floating through the air. The parks (both sections, north and south) were relatively empty.

I’m writing this from the deck of a working ranch as chickens peck beneath the boards and vast hills of green stretch to the horizon. I’m thinking about how profoundly the environment shaped TR. How profoundly it affects us all.

Forty-Nine

Forty-Nine

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It was after 7 yesterday and shadows were already softening the North Dakota badlands when I finally entered this state. I’ve wanted to come here for years, had missed it on other cross-country vacations. And no wonder. It’s up here. And out there. It feels both otherworldly and strangely familiar.

The familiar part comes from the 10-gallon hats and the moose heads on the wall. The cowboy culture I’d just seen in Montana. And after driving much of the width of that state yesterday, I would be hard pressed to pick pictures of North Dakota out of a lineup if a bunch of Montana shots were thrown in.

Still, there is a difference here, a roof-of-the-country feeling. And a quaintness, too.

And then there is this: North Dakota is my 49th state. I’ve visited every other but Hawaii. All I can say is, it was worth the wait.

Looking Closer

Looking Closer

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Yesterday I met a wee Scotswoman who has lived in the western United States for more than 40 years but still has a lovely brogue’ish lilt to her speech. She lost her husband almost a year ago and since then, she said, has found great comfort in walking. “It’s when I think,” she said.

She lives in Spokane and strolls through neighborhoods, but putting her comment together with the spectacular mountain scenery we hiked through yesterday made me ponder what it would be like to have the Rockies at your disposal as a walking/thinking landscape.

At first it would distract. Hard to ponder anything in the face of such beauty. Hard to do much of anything but marvel. But in time, I suppose, even great beauty becomes ordinary. And then one’s eye would wander from the grand vistas to the small beauties: a swath of fog wrapped around a hillside in the morning chill or a stand of lupine beside a weathered tree stump. In time, these would be the prompts of productive ambling; these little things, small and lovely.

Drinking It In

Drinking It In

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Yesterday I couldn’t stop taking pictures. Today I have at least 25 photos of the same vista. It was the photographic equivalent of drinking it in. I couldn’t sit and absorb the beauty then and there so I snapped shot after shot to do it later.

Today, I’m in the midst of great scenery but with the chance to hike into it. But before taking off I had to download the photographs, look at them and conjure up the sights we saw yesterday. The Grand Tetons, some of the youngest mountains on the continent; jagged, snow-topped peaks. Alpine meadows for contrast, easy on the eye. A cold, clear lake.

What to say? Only that sometimes it’s enough just to know such splendor exists.

Road to Big Sky

Road to Big Sky

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Yesterday I was in three time zones, two airplanes, two cars, one bus and the tail end of a tropical storm. I landed in God’s country.

Tall firs reaching to heaven. A mountain pass that made my ears pop. Blue, blue skies. Motorists that allow safe following distances. And, at the end of the road, the town of Jackson Hole, Wyoming.

The air was delicious, the scenery divine.  We thought we’d walk to town to stay awake. How long, I asked the desk clerk. Twenty minutes, she chirped.

You know how this story goes. It was double that. But with the good luck that can sometimes befall the hapless traveler, we found a free shuttle bus that brought us home.

We had ice cream for dinner. We haven’t eaten a real meal in 40 hours. But we are here, on the road to Montana. Next stop, Big Sky!

Montana Bound

Montana Bound

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Starting today I’ll be trading tree canopy for big sky, hot and humid for crisp and cool, Eastern Daylight for Mountain Time.

It’s been a while since I’ve been out west, and sitting in my living room now, with still some packing left to do, it hardly seems possible I’ll be there this time tomorrow.

But I’m already seeing the vast expanses, buttes in the distance, red rocks and sage. I’m already tasting the air out there, and feeling the altitude in my lungs and head.

The walking may be slower but the views go on forever.

Outside In

Outside In

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I missed National Trails Day (June 6) but am not too late for Great Outdoors Month (all of June). The idea behind  these celebrations is to get people outside. No problem for a walker in the suburbs. I’m outside as often as possible.

But Great Outdoors Month is a good time to ponder the great divide between outside and in, between natural light and its artificial cousin, between the elements and our shelter from them.

Thinking back to Benin,  open doors, the colorful cloths hung where screens would be. There the line between outside and in is far more blurred than it is here. There people sleep on their little verandas in the hot season. They cook outside, eat outside and often wash their clothes outside, too. They do not need a Great Outdoors Month. 

Not to romanticize this, though. The Beninese are in a constant battle to keep their houses clean and dust-free, not an easy proposition with unpaved roads and meager sidewalks. They live with a degree of discomfort most of us cannot imagine.

Still, in so many ways, including this one, they remind me of simple truths we seem to have forgotten. One of them is this: That before we became creatures of climate-controlled comfort, we lived in tune with the wind and the rain and the sun. We belonged to our world in a way we don’t anymore. And it’s good to remember that.