Can nature amend history?

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In a twist of irony, Grand Teton National Park was created by a series of shady land deals orchestrated by John D. Rockefeller, Jr, son of the famous oil tycoon. Nowadays, underhanded land grabs and Big Oil are the archenemies of conservationists and environmentalists, but Terry Tempest Williams paints Rockefeller and his plan in golden, glowing colors. The land became a national park, piecemeal, between 1943 and 1950, leaving only the JY Ranch in the hands of the Rockefeller family as a beloved summer retreat. In 2001 this, too, passed into the hands of the National Park Service, at the request of Rockefeller Jr.’s son, Laurance. The ranch itself was dismantled and reconstructed outside the park, and the land on which it had once stood was rewilded, returned to it’s pre-ranch state. Williams explains the motivation for the land transfer:

This gift marked a continuation of John D. Rockefeller Jr.’s philanthropic legacy to national parks. The ranch, purchased in 1932  for $90,000, roughly $45 an acre, is valued today at more than $160 million. But as Laurance Rockefeller said, “Father’s greatest gift to the national park was not his generous donation of land, but rather his vision that people can live in harmony with nature.”

But the vision realized by the gift and the rewilding is not one of harmony, but segregation. The deconstruction of the ranch is a clear message that humans can live in harmony with nature, and nature with humans, but they cannot do so while living in the same place. That kind of thinking is not only sad, it’s dangerous—but it’s also unfortunately common in conservation.

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Extinction

Humility in born in wildness. We are not protecting grizzlies from extinction; they are protecting us from the extinction of experience as we engage in a world beyond ourselves.

—Terry Tempest Williams, The Hour of Land

I think of what wild animals are in our imaginations. And how they are disappearing—not just from the wild, but from people’s everyday lives, replaced by images of themselves in print and on screen. The rarer the get, the fewer meanings animals can have. Eventually rarity is all they are made of. The condor is an icon of extinction. There’s little else to it not but being the last of its kind. And in this lies the diminution of the world. How can you love something, how can you fight to protect it, if all it means is loss? […] I know that some of my friends see my keeping a hawk as morally suspect, but I couldn’t love or understand hawks as much as I do if I’d only ever seen them on screens. I’ve made a hawk part of a human life, and a human life part of a hawk’s, and it has made the hawk a million times more complicated and full of wonder to me. […] She can resist the meaning humans give her. But the condor? The condor has no resistance to us at all.

— Helen Macdonald, H is for Hawk

Like a familiar and beloved poem

In those moments, it seems as if it could be possible to comprehend the entire United States, to know it—this beautiful, fragile land—like one knows a familiar and beloved poem; that if one just kept on the road, kept going down new highways, it would be possible not only to express in words but to actually experience, to apprehend in scope, as perhaps a single blood cell does the whole body, this country I love so much.

— Ken Burns, Horatio’s Drive: America’s First Road Trip

“All through life there are much-loved places that we leave behind, sometimes because we choose to and sometimes because we must. Rooms in which we have fallen in love, the distant silhouette of a town where we felt at home, beloved views–all of this falls behind us as we walk forward, for life is full of change.”

Jane Urquhart, A Number of Things (2016)