Beyond Views
As the last member of our Patagonian hiking circus to arrive, I give a nod. Without words, we strip down, count down, and run into the alpine glacial lake. Illegal yes, magical yes. While I have yet to visit an alpine lake that was not stunning, this one was special. The three granite towers in Chile’s Torres Del Paine National Park stretch straight upward, forming spires that dwarf even the tallest skyscrapers. Gods fingers. No human-built environment can begin to resemble this beauty: it is far too grand, too magical, too complex, too big for the measly mind of the human to comprehend. In this moment, I was experiencing the sublime — everything a “Ten Best Hiking Spots” list looks for. Extreme beauty, varied environments, unique character, good weather, relatively easy hike, it was all there. Shivering in this alpine lake could, better yet should, have been the pinnacle of my life; yet it felt empty. In this moment — the one that I planned for half a year, saved up an entire summer for, and traveled a week to get to — I couldn’t focus. To understand why, I need to start at the beginning.
*****
My fellow Middlebury College student and good friend Hunt Cramer first proposed a winter break trip a year earlier; I promptly signed up. Frankly, I didn’t care where it was, only that it needed to be beautiful, a new environment, and warmer than Vermont in December. The alternative of spending the whole three weeks of winter break at my parents in New York City makes my headache even writing about it. I already know how that goes. Sleep for several days, sleep for a couple more until it becomes intolerable, see the whole family, argue with everyone, and finally get so antsy to retreat to the natural world that I go insane. The call of the wild is simply too strong to ignore So after lots of plan changes, the addition of another fellow student Chris Adamo, and a year of waiting, we were off.
After enduring three days of travel, we made it to Torres Del Paine National Park a day early. Unable to enter the park before our permit would allow, we set out on trails outside of the park boundaries. After cresting one of the very first foothills, we stood in shock. An ungulate we later learned was called a guanaco was just feet away. Its camel style neck with llama style coat resembles some sort of psychedelic Patagonian horse. I immediately thought we just saw an endangered species, or at least rare one. Would I ever be blessed with their presence again? How many of these things exist? Thinking of this as an extraordinary experience, we all whipped out the cameras and took enough photos to make even the most nosy grandmother happy.
We sat in absolute awe as the herd rounded the corner. The scrub-shrub dry plains were covered with these things, all of them heads down eating. We thought this was a once in a lifetime experience as several dozen guanacos were front of us. However, as the trip progressed, we realized how common they are. This crest of this desert hill that brought the animals in sight was not particularly special as nearly every viewpoint brings the animal in sight. It is impossible to understand Patagonia without the guanaco, and we didn’t understand Patagonia.
Upon re-assimilating into the front-country after our trip, I researched the psychedelic Patagonian horse. I learned the grownups roam in a manner of a self-obsessed millionaire, not giving a fuck. This is because it is only the young that are prey for the endangered Puma who is their only predator. With limited predators, the guanaco just eat and constantly fight in battles for dominance. Overpopulation and constant eating mean the guanaco overgraze nearly the entire environment, changing the floral composition of the region. As the plants change, so do the animals, such as meadow birds which need dense vegetation to properly hide their nest from predators. In a manner similar to Yellowstone without the wolves, Patagonia without a healthy Puma population means overgrazing by wild herbivores such as guanaco. This has as far-reaching effects as preventing forest regrowth and changing entire species complications.
Not only did I know nothing about the guanaco, but I couldn’t name a single one of those grasses. I don’t even know if they are grasses, sedges, or rushes. I tried the rime, “sedges have edges, rushes are round, and grasses have joints, man [motion that you are smoking ‘grass’]”, but my self-taught biology didn’t shine. I realized I knew nothing about the foothills I traveled through. I still appreciated raw beauty, but that was it. I felt a longing to understand more. A longing to develop a deeper connection. I realized the beauty of the guanaco, the mountains, and the glacial lakes all are superficial without a true connection or understanding. Gazing upon this mystical animal became a source of anger as I realized I could not get a true sense of it. I found myself akin to an alien, I was missing the connection to place found in my home woods of Vermont.
*****
I belong to the hemlocks. Specifically the Eastern Hemlocks, Tsuga canadensis, found in Vermont and upstate New York. It required years of hiking for my realization that sparked this connection. I found that whenever I walked around the woods, I would unintentionally stop under the hemlocks. Their moss-dominant understory with perennial ferns and exposed rock always fill me with joy. Their riparian nature — meaning they are found near streams — always caused me to listen to the flowing water. Their often steep habitats cause me to pause to catch my breath. It took years until I noticed this connection and a 280-mile hike on Vermont’s Long Trail to solidify this bond. After camping night after night under hemlocks, I knew my calling and I knew my trail name. I would be called hemlock, cementing my connection to place.
This connection thrives in mutualism. I believe that my inherited extreme privilege as a white, upper-class, male human-animal means I must use my power to make the world a more just place. Through my connection to the hemlocks, I’ve learned that to exist as a moral being I must use my powers to stop the ecocide that we often call progress. In return, these trees provide life and love. They sequester carbon allowing us to live in a stable climate. They filter the air, allowing us to take in the crisp oxygen that pleases even the most fragile of lungs. They filter our water, providing an essential function that humans can do only provide with billions of dollars of investment into energy-intensive filtration systems. And they provide us with unlimited happiness as each tree is uniquely beautiful. It took years to understand the deep relationship between humans and their local ecosystem.
I now draw upon this connection for my very survival and happiness. As I write, I sit looking out at Vermont’s Green Mountains. Through a sense of place, I know the evergreen section of the mountain I gaze upon is hemlocks. I know their massive diameter takes two large people to fully hug and I hypothesize these trees were missed by loggers due to their incredibly steep habitat. While I know little, I know the basics of these trees. I care deeply for them, I have forged a bond, a sense of place. This connection is why I hike in Vermont.
With this connection, hiking a mountain without a single view becomes filled with breathtaking scenery. My thought processes follows a pattern of: “what a unique furl in the bark!” “Wow, look how that hemlock’s rootball circles that rock, providing a stable structure for hundreds of years despite only an inch of topsoil.” For me, the hemlocks provide more than beauty but provide life, love, and pure joy. I need a sense of place, a sense of belonging, a sense of love. Is connection to your surrounding natural world the purpose of hiking? This connection is what I longed for in Patagonia.
*****
Hunt and Chris can’t stop gazing. We look to our left and stare at what we all agreed looks like the Alps. Massive dark colored mountains with glaciers and constant avalanches appear impossibly powerful. The sound of the avalanches so deep and so powerful that the ground shakes, resembling a miniature earthquake. On our right we see Yosemite, light-colored vertical faces that must be a climber’s paradise. The two sets of mountains drain into the same basin, forming a raging river that we dip our water bottles into for an ice-cold refreshment. Undeniably stunning.
I was conflicted. On one hand, the scenery only got more breathtaking as the days progressed. Regardless of your priorities, this beauty is enough to lift your spirit and I wanted to take it all in. I would never return to Patagonia and never to these landscapes again. I must live in the moment, enjoy every god darn second, I’m here anyway and it is sublime. On the other hand, I missed the hemlocks: I was sick of the beauty, give me the traditionally ugly, I need a genuine connection. I realized I don’t want more stellar photos, I don’t want more jaw-dropping contrast. I want to be able to identify, label, classify, know more, understand. How in the world was this formed? What kind of tree is this? What was the native-peoples connection to this place? I wanted to learn the language of the land, I needed to know more. Beauty is beautiful, but that is not enough. I felt as if I was sleeping with a stunning woman whose name I didn’t even know. It felt perfect for the first few days, but I’m looking for love. I longed for Vermont. My quest for the sublime often causes me to forget about my own backyard.
*****
After realizing I starred at a mountain every day while at home in Vermont, I quickly became fixated on getting to know her. She is shorter than her sisters situated on the spine of the Green Mountains, has no trail, and appears to lack any significant views. But she started calling and it got louder every day. I realized I have watched her turn from green in the summer to yellow in the fall and to white in the winter. I have tried to picture what her cliffs would be like from the base. I have wondered what animals could live in such a steep environment. I even hypothesized why she maintains a seemingly backwards order of evergreen trees towards the bottom while deciduous towards the top. The Forest Service deemed her so mundane that her official name is simply her elevation of 2513ft, but that just adds to my sense of curiosity.
No trespassing signs with bullet holes didn’t greet Hunt, Chris, and I kindly. But that was not her fault, for no-one can own a mountain! The logging trails eventually ended and the first cliff shocked me. An un-mapped cascade flowed down the center of the near vertical falls. The power of the water was first apparent in the sounds, but I quickly realized the twenty-foot divot on either side of the rock detailed the raw power of even a small stream. And the moss! It covered the rocks so effectually that most rock faces had a wall of green. Secret Springs does not have any breathtaking scenery: no Alps and Yosemite combined, no “Top Ten Hiking Spots” list, not even any viewpoints. I’ve learned the so-called green tunnel of viewless hiking due to constant tree cover fills me with joy. I didn’t want one more dam view! Give me the traditionally ugly, the mundane, and the relatively small rounded mountains. In honor this mountain and inspired by this spot, I name 2513ft Secret Springs.
*****
Gods fingers lie before me with remnants from her glacial lake dripping down my legs. I felt empty, not worthy. I felt like a dumb gringo abusing the towers. How dare I swim in this water when I have no connection to the towers, its surrounding lands, its animals, its history, its anything. What would the native-peoples who supposedly went “extinct” think of this? I would suspect they found this spot sacred and with equal confidence I suspect they would not approve of my swimming here. What do the Torres themselves think of this? Maybe they don’t care, but how could I know that. I have zero ability to speak their language, understand their history, their way of being. Instead of care and reciprocity with nature, I focused on immediate satisfaction. In this way, I treated the landscape not as sacred and intrinsically valuable, but a natural resource designed to bring in tourist dollars. Monetized, modified, and dominated. I, the nature-loving atheist, followed the Abrahamic religions ideology of domination over the natural world instead of an ecological mindset of mutual respect and reciprocity. I did not respect the environment for its intrinsic value, I followed the bible. “Subdue [nature]; and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the air and over every living thing that moves upon the earth”. I came to Patagonia, I saw the mythical towers, and I conquered them. In reality, the quest for good views and to follow what others deem as cool led me to forfeit my moral compass.
*****
I realized that I not only disrespected the towers, but actively hurt them. In order to obtain this experience, I flew around 4,000 miles each way. My emissions from a single coach flight seat are responsible for approximately 2,000 pounds — 1 ton — of CO2 emissions deposited directly into the upper atmosphere. Staring at gods fingers meant hurting her by changing her very climate: the glaciers that fed this lake are dying, the arctic flora will be pushed out by less cold tolerant species that grow faster, and who knows how that will change the fauna. What should have been the happiest moment of my life was filled with grief. The Towers didn’t speak words of wisdom, but screamed words of disapproval. How dare I come here. Leave Patagonia to the Patagonians you idiot! Even the towers are nearly meaningless without a sense of place.
We are incredibly lucky. In a warming world, recreational flying will have to end or be seriously curtailed. It is not that planes are inefficient, it is they simply travel so fast that one can travel thousands of miles for a short vacation. We need to reduce the number of miles we travel, full stop. While this less mobile world can be viewed as negative, I view it as positive. If you want to hike, go to your local mountains. If you want to climb, go to your local mountains. If you want to bike, go to your local mountains. Sure, you might never see thousand-meter vertical towers, you might never see glaciers, you might never see guanacos, but that is ok.
Instead, exploring locally will help you realize the beauty of your hemlocks, your Secret Springs, the infinite beauty in your back yard. Understand that you don’t need Patagonia to experience the outdoors. In this world, people will not only emit less, spend less, and need to commit less time, they will develop a deep connection to their local woods. They will develop a sense of place. With a new connection, I’m convinced most would see the clear injustice of permitting their place being utilized as a so-called natural resource and converted for industrial use. Hopefully, this local connection will spread to encompass a global economical mindset as people realize if their local woods have a right to live, why doesn’t everyone’s woods? Developing a true sense of place means fighting to preserve the natural world. This is what the Torres taught me.