With Liberty - or Justice - for All
Polemics & Policy on the Pacific Crest

by Brett Tucker

The A Tree?

Emerging from the woods onto a dirt road, I paused to verify my position with the guide. Lots and lots of trees here, or at least on either side of the earthen swath at my feet; apparently the road served double-duty as the southern boundary of California's Plumas National Forest, which I was looking forward to seeing. But which tree was the "A Tree?" My Pacific Crest Trail guidebook offered few clues.

For that matter, where was the trail? Somewhat disconcerted, nevertheless I at last determined to veer east, following the road, and was proceeding on blind faith, when suddenly a choir of voices rang out, earnest but off key. My guardian angels?

At first I ignored them. But upon deciphering the shrill mantra, ("Over here, boy! Trail’s over here!") I at last swallowed pride and wallowed back through the cloud of dust in which I had left them moments earlier. One middle aged saint, a forest service summer volunteer with honest, weathered face and oddly clean, forest green uniform, stood apart from his fellow choristers. He now approached me with eager interest.

Spying the trail at last, I tried shuffling on by within a concealing veil of ruddy forest service road dust. But no such luck.

"Excuse me, sir, but I noticed you're carrying the Pacific Crest Trail guidebook. Looks like you've been out for a while. I'm here all this weekend asking our forest visitors for their input regarding the experience we're providing along this National Scenic Trail. What changes would you like to see as we plan for the trail’s future? As a long distance hiker, you are, in my opinion, a professional. We value your feedback."

"Get rid of the horses," I snorted, inhaling the thick air.

An hour earlier I had been strolling sublimely down the trail when suddenly there approached an equestrian outfit, southbound. I had stepped off the tread to let them pass – de rigeur – at which time the leader of this contingency announced a unusual decree. He had suggested I remain on trail while he led his group instead around me. I shrugged, with effort under the enormity of the situation, and then watched powerlessly as perhaps a dozen head of stock broke new ground alongside the beaten path. Nonchalantly, with well-honed pretense, the lead cowboy explained that his posse had been fixing to head cross-country anyway, in this case down to one of the pristine glacial tarns in the Lakes Basin area. And so they did, high horses adroitly turning eastbound toward the rising sun, emptying their bowels all at once, then plodding, gouging, excavating their way slowly down and out of sight. Never did they actually pass me. Instead, I had served more or less as their imaginary walking roadblock – a good excuse for an early morning equestrian trailblazing ceremony.

The dust lingered as my interview with Ranger Rick heated up.

"Sir, the Pacific Crest Trail is managed so as to afford a multi-user experience, in this case to the benefit of hikers and equestrians alike. Typically neither group much cares for the other, we understand, but clearly it would be unfair – in fact unlawful – to discourage one group and allow the other free reign. The federal Wilderness Act provides for the protection of such places as the PCT here in Plumas, allowing for a non-mechanized user experience in step with the needs of the sensitive ecosystems through which the trail passes. More often than ever, we're hearing from users that they prefer this primitive, lightly-on-the-land type of experience, and so WE are managing not just the PCT but much of your Plumas National Forest accordingly. For instance, we're greatly reducing the amount of logging that occurs up here."

"Get rid of the roads. There's too many of them."

I thought for a moment, squinting at the green figure through our dusty pall, then continued with this new, broader line of reasoning. This user wasn't satisfied.

"It seems to me that many of the problems facing our forest lands we can trace back to a pre-existing set of troubling circumstances: too many roads. With the roads comes easy access, and especially in active or onetime logging country this easy access comes in the form of countless haul roads snaking into the hills from every imaginable direction. This encourages, not just overuse of the forest, but blatant mis-use. Environmentally unsound use, by equestrians who haul their animals high into the hills with no appreciation of the fragile surroundings. And of course by mechanized transport such as mountain bikes, motorcycles and all-terrain vehicles, which are nearly impossible to regulate due to these innumerable points of access. I say close the roads, and let them revert to nature."

My green words of pathos (however eloquent prior to editing) now elicited a peculiar expression from the face of the officer: the pained look of a semi-sympathetic soul decked out in the restrictive garb of a middleman. But soon enough he regained his composure.

"Well, you're certainly correct in thinking that bikes and vehicles of all kinds have no place up on this trail," he seemed to say. "They aren't legal, and we try our best to keep those users aware of that with signs and so forth. But if we deny them the trails, then we must give them the roads. And so we do, except as expressly stated, at locked gates for instance. Thank you for your feedback."

My ranger friend clearly was duty-bound, and doing a fairly good job at his duties considering the hand he had been dealt. An ambassador to the US Forest Service, one whose assigned task it is to lend the public an attentive ear, could easily become a scapegoat for the many ills of the hills. But I couldn't bear to see that happen, not in my company. And it was now apparent that he was too government-grown for such badgering anyway. So I wished him a pleasant weekend, thanked him for the directions. Turning away, I made an offhand remark about the need for more trail signage at these nutty road crossings, and then I relieved myself of his company. He let me go.

Now with Plumas (feathers) I glided north along the trail a ways, lost in thought (a flight of fancy). I thought about what I had said, and what I should have said to that ranger. I contemplated the possible meanings of The A Tree… no, still befuddling. I noted the fine patina of red clay earth, convecting like clouds with each earthbound strike of my heel, now clinging to my legs like a second skin. And then I recalled a dusty old book, written by some ancient romantic named Hawthorne, back in the day, and what the letter A had symbolized in that grammar school tale. Slowly my head began to clear…

Every road the trail intersects is, in fact, an Adulteration of nature. Each bulldozed swath, however earthy in demeanor, is a line describing the place where the natural world loses its continuity and becomes an assemblage of "things" instead of a seamless whole. These are good places to lose a wilderness footpath, to poke about in vain for some sort of sign, showing the way. Good places to meet our Ambassadors from Washington (the one back east).

And what about the Pacific Crest Trail herself, for that matter? Does she not wear her own letter A (perhaps attached to the end of her acronymic name)? Is the PCT not likewise an intrusion upon nature?

No, we must focus upon intent here. The Trail is for the common good.

The common Human good, perhaps?

No, the trail’s highest intent holds no such selfishness. Like the noble forests through which it passes, the PCT requires protection, true conservation. Indeed, the Trail may represent our best means of learning to appreciate and thus conserve her majestic native surroundings. Dust-choked logging roads and wilderness freeways full of speeding tourists cannot do this – cannot imbue a stewardship ethic within the masses – nor can a trail abused, polluted, diminished by vehicles of conveyance. And a vehicle, let's remember, is always something bigger, heavier, and usually faster than our own two feet, a creature we ride in or on. How to convince the big, shady authority types that this fragile path drifting underfoot must be designated only for those who would chance to walk?

Interludes. Halcyon daydreams. All philosophical hooey, you say. Perhaps, but can’t be helped. You see, long distance hiking breeds the stuff like warm, fuzzy rabbits. And most of these grand notions – however living, breathing, full of potential – never reach maturity, either. Biomass conservation, world peace, sensible sympathetic leadership – the list goes on. With nurturing and protection some might flourish, but sadly most of our innate idealism is hunted down by the dogs of so-called human progress.

The PCT took a turn and then tackled a long, steady rise, heading for anticipated first views of distant Mount Lassen. I climbed along, still in thought, and then suddenly realized that I was hiking in a motor bike rut – had been since leaving the last road crossing. As ruts go, this one wasn't particularly capacious – yet. In truth it was more of a wide knobby track through the dust just then. But it's the thought that counts, and I couldn't help but think that I was on the path of a big, howling, smelly beast, likely non-native. El visitante non grata.

I was wrong. The creature was after me, and as I heard it looming defiantly from behind, my brain swelled with the sea of vindictive comments I might use in assailing it. These damn kids need to be taught a lesson. Where's the “tree fuzz” when we actually need them? I stepped off the trail and awaited my date with destiny, again. The bike rumbled steadily, deliberately forward, and then lurched to a stop alongside of me, idling shrilly. The poor thing looked ancient, like vintage junk. It was wide and stocky yet with a clear aura of meagerness. And it was green. As its driver cut the engine, I sputtered forth with a few choice words.

"Not sure whether you know, but right now you're on the Pacific Crest Trail, which is closed to bikes." And then, on reflex, came my verbal self-arrest, stopping me just shy of a probable rocky outlook. "I want to make sure you know, so you don't have a run-in with the forest service. They might hand you a stiff fine, of course."

“We are, er well, I am the Forest Service!" trumpeted the man behind the helmet, already in the process of substantiating this astonishing claim.

By golly, the standard weathered saintly face, the mirrored sunglasses, crisp button-down work shirt, all plainly spoke the truth. The tools of the trade – an arsenal of equipment for "managing" and "improving" – all bundled in tow and eager for work. And of course (how could I have suspected otherwise?): the Government-Issue forest green motor bike – the singletrack workhorse – vehicle of choice for all national scenic trials courses. Beep beep!

"I'm sorry,” I said, still in shock, “but I didn't realize that you folks get around the trails on those things. They are illegal on the PCT, aren't they? I mean, we thru-hiker folk couldn't make our way to Canada on one, for instance. Could we?" (Admittedly the idea did sound appealing for a moment, at least in order to put some quick miles between me and the feds.)

"No, no," he chided happily. "These things are definitely not legal for everyday riding. Had to apply for a special permit. Took weeks. Luckily I got it, 'cause it would be damn near impossible to do this work any other way."

"What sort of work?"

"Have you been seein' them flaggin' ribbons tied to branches and whatnot?"

Indeed I had, often along the trail, and privately I had always wondered about such things.

"Well each one of those ribbons is flaggin' a work site, and there's many more up ahead that I haven't got to yet. Ever' day this week I have to go back and forth along this section of trail, flaggin' and diggin' and doin' brushin', and it's almost five miles each way."

I did the math in my head: five miles in, plus five miles out, totaled ten miles round trip.

"And then there's all these tools I need to bring."

I eyed his array of belongings: thirty pounds, max. Not including the bike.

"I need the bike. It's essential equipment for this type of work."

As gently as possible I tried conveying a rough sense of irony about the matter. I had always presumed that motor vehicles can, and do, cause a great deal of damage to our nation's vulnerable backcountry trail network. The Tehachapi Mountains, off to the south, were practically synonymous with a long, wild weekend of ATV riding and roasting hikers on giant spits over the evening bonfire. And both the mountains and the hikers carried the scars to prove it. Imagine the trouble one might bring upon oneself donning a ranger's cap and straddling a green Yamaha, buzzing up into those hills to survey the trail damage. No way to win new friends: the hikers take you for the bad guy, the bad guys take you for the good guy. And no way for a reconstructive surgeon of sorts to mend an ailing trail – ripping it wide open on your way into surgery. Not for nothing motor bikes are banned from the PCT. Right?

"Actually," clarified Biker: forest ranger, "it's my feeling that these machines cause very little damage to the trails. It's all in how you ride 'em, see. But the hikers and the horsemen don't like the bikes, period. Most of these kids ride their bikes loud and fast. They're a nuisance and a danger. So of course bikes aren't allowed. But we need to get some work done up here, and I ride this thing real careful... real careful."

And with that he replaced his concealing headgear, stabbed his crank with a dusty boot heel, raised a work-gloved hand to his throttle, through me an ambiguous halting nod, and took off northbound up the trail. Real careful. And real slow, too. I felt a passing urge to trot alongside his two-wheeled tonnage, snidely demonstrating the possibilities of lightweight backpacking. But probably best not to wear him out, I figured. So I let the two of them win, watching with amusement and anguish as they lumbered away, threw their outsized mass awkwardly about, proceeded on government time.

Geologic time is even slower, I reminded myself; Nature will forgive us these sins one day, and transgressions far, far worse. But will we – you and I, reader – be here to witness that redemption?

Interludes…

On another trail, in another time and place, I had upon occasion come eye to eye with the simplest solution to all the world's troubles. Up there, high in a strangely accommodating land, I found instructions – a simple diagram – that purported to teach us how to share the trail in equity, with tolerance – for the benefit of all. It depicted a triangle, with a symbol at each of its three vertices: a hiker, a horseman, and an offroad enthusiast. Connecting these points and completing the triangle were three arrows, and each arrow pointed from one symbol toward another – from one user who ought yield the trail to another, for the benefit of all. The rules were straightforward: the hiker yields to the horseman; the biker yields to the hiker and the horseman; the horseman of course defers to no one. And everyone lives happily ever after. Yet throughout that journey I encountered little enduring contentment. The equestrians would become either suddenly pious when in my company, or, like their horses, skittish. The bikers screamed past just slowly enough for me to catch their fixed gaze of arrogant ambivalence. And the hikers had allotted themselves too much time for pondering the absence of justice.

Absence of justice, or objective truth? We forest visitors may read the signs and acknowledge their rules, yet deep down we often still believe the trail is rightfully ours, lawfully or no – an innate liberty. Truth, objectivity reside in the center of the triangle, out of reach, and we revolve around and around the outside, forever pointing blame at the other fellow, while defending our so-called liberties. Meanwhile the trail remains unobtrusively beneath us, impartially observing the games we play, keeping score though we fail to see. But day by day that trail grows wider as our tolerance for one another slackens, and deeper as we fail to seek higher ground. Then one day our trail at last becomes as a road, a wound, a lasting scar, marking a place where nature has lost her seamless continuity; she’s become a "thing" for our possession. And with that her beauty is likewise lost, buried with the hope she held for us.

If truth really exists here, at least truth in action, then it may lie in deference, not so much to the other users we meet along the trail, nor to some well-meaning triangle of hope. And not to the feds and their endless doubletalk. Rather, deference to nature. Maybe in yielding the path to humility and compassion, and with a new respect for the ecology – with an urgency to defend what remains of wilderness – our selfishness finally steps aside and allows our higher selves to stride confidently past. And this now begs of us the vexing, often polarizing question, does our “higher self” stride, with two legs, or does it ride? Perhaps, at the end of the day, when all is finally quiet, this matter is for each of us alone to determine, a policy to be fleshed out through a dialog with our well-cultivated environmental conscience, irrespective of law, popular opinion, or preconception. Including mine.

We play, we re-create, while the trail keeps score. It will win or lose by our own actions, and ultimately so will we. Play fairly and the truth will be revealed.

But still – I thought to myself, admiring snow-capped Lassen Peak, away to the north and now radiant with the effect of a setting sun – they really ought to close some of those forest service roads. Keep out the unconscionable types, or at least make life a little less easy for them. Yes, let us barricade a good number of these roads, spread some grass seed, strategically position a few wind-felled trees, increase the population of native carnivores, cougar for instance – any vital creature that enjoys chasing and pouncing. Give Nature back the power to inflict a conscience in us, when necessary, and to remind us of how we got here, and to whom we owe our Allegiance. Give her the kick-start, the giddy’ap, she needs.

Article & photos copyright (C) Brett Tucker. For inquiries about publishing this material elsewhere, contact me here. All unauthorized uses prohibited.