There is No Wilderness
Perspectives on Native lands and how to be respectful while growing your own connection.
What defines us
I am Native American, on the tribal register of the San Carlos Apache tribe in Arizona, but that does little to define me. It doesn’t even define what tribal group I belong to—if any.
My grandfather was from Arizona but moved to California before starting a family. He worked for a time as one of the original “Indians” at Disneyland and would take my dad and his brother when they were little. Soon after, the family broke up and my grandfather stayed behind while the remainder of the family joined my grandmother’s tribe in Wisconsin. Due to the complications of blood and the fact that the U.S. government uses genetic history to determine tribal enrollment, I have virtually no connection to what is nominally “my tribe.” This complication is shared by lots of folks with Native heritage and makes it difficult for any of us to represent our many perspectives, but I am grateful for the chance to share some thoughts here.
Wild spaces
For many, our relationship to our wild spaces is predicated on an ignorance of this history. When we see ourselves as explorers of new spaces or count ourselves among the few to have summited a peak, or even indulge in campfire fantasies of cowboys and the “Old West,” we are unwittingly tying our recreation to a history of intrusion, conquest and genocide. What helps get me though these confusing moments is a simple phrase: “There is no wilderness.”
I first had this thought years ago on a local mountain summit where I live in Washington. Behind me and thousands of feet below was an interstate highway that cuts through the mountains. Laid out before me was the Alpine Lakes Wilderness, an area set aside for protection by the U.S. government as “an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain.” It goes on to add that wilderness is defined as “land retaining its primeval character and influence, without permanent improvements or human habitation.” I looked out across the wilderness before me and could clearly see scars from mining; old, decommissioned roads; and, of course, and hiking trails which followed the paths of ancient Native trading routes.
The greatest physical distance you can put between yourself and a road in the lower 48 is about 22 miles.
Again, there is no wilderness.
This might sound harsh at first. After all, you and I both likely go into wild spaces to disconnect from the hustle and expectations of our modern world, but it is important to remember that even though dangers abound and one misstep could mean an accident or injury, you are recreating in what amounts to a park. These lands were either key to the nation’s financial security, not profitable to extract resources from, or simply yet to be noticed by greed—but in all cases, these lands were previously inhabited by Native people.
The wild lands we all appreciate and love to visit are wild only because they were intentionally cleared of habitation via violence, and the resulting inequalities still haunt Native communities. It’s important to remain respectful when visiting these places, as their safety and integrity are crucial to not only their own preservation but also the human stories that surround them. The same reverence for the land that causes shock when we see trash dumped in a stream should drive our behavior when we exist in explicitly or implicitly Native spaces.
Here are a few ways to make a difference while growing your own connection to the land through recreation:
Do some research: There are formal, informal and official Native communities and spaces across our entire nation. Learn which nations, tribes or groups originally inhabited your area. If you are specifically planning to visit a reservation or community, check their web presence to see if there are any current impacts to access or areas where visitors are not allowed. In some cases, access may only be seasonal. It is also valuable to learn what issues might be facing the local Native community, and if there is an opportunity to support current activism, do so.
Leverage language: The original Native terms and names for landmarks have in many cases been used consistently through to modern times. Think of places like Yosemite (which means bear), Seattle (a leader’s name), or Massachusetts (that big hill over there), but a lot of them have been lost to time or replaced with a European surname or racial epithet. Learning Native placenames is a great way to use language to reinforce that our wild spaces are not that wild after all. Some groups or organizations encourage a brief verbal acknowledgment of the original inhabitants of the land prior to engagements or events. While well intentioned, land acknowledgments often lack meaningful calls to action and benefit only the speaker. Remember when using our names that actions speak louder than words. To better honor indigenous people, get involved with local or national efforts to rename landmarks and facilities.
Practice Leave No Trace: This should go without saying, but never leave permanent impacts to the areas you visit. Practice Leave No Trace, but remember that sometimes even the act of visitation, exploring or climbing can violate a sacred space. In many areas, there are strict rules regarding the collection of plant or animal material; even picking a few berries might be forbidden.
Our shared heritage
More than names, more than our genetic heritage, it is our common story and experiences that bind communities together. Consider that our histories joined long ago, and it is how we approach today, and each other, that defines us more than our blood or the color of our skin. When we sit on mountain peaks, gaze across an ancient valley, or just share a sunset, we are not doing so in a wilderness but a vibrant and amazing space that has been our home the whole time. Some history is written in books; some history passes from mouth to ear; and some is written together in the places we love to connect, relax and remember.
-Cameron H Preston, 2022