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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A Desert Adventure, Day 6

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View of the Grand Canyon from the top of North Kaibab Trail.

The Grand Canyon.

The sight of it inspires different emotions for different people, most of them very strong emotions. For me, it inspires a kind of disbelief and despair. Disbelief because it is so big, so grand, so… so much that my mind cannot grasp it. Walking along the rim of canyon, I start to wonder if it is even real. If the park staff printed a really, really long poster and suspended it from a scaffold… would I really be able to tell the difference? It is unreal the way the solar system is unreal, the way those vast distances and massive objects just cannot exist in the same reality as coffee mugs and car keys and you and me.

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Looking down to the continuation of the Kaibab Trail and the inner canyon.

And despair, because of course it is real, the way both car keys and Jupiter are real, but there is no way to ever convey its reality to someone else. I could write pages of description, and you would still not understand what it is like to stand on the edge of canyon. I could take thousands of photos, and not a single one of them could capture it immensity. The Grand Canyon makes me put down my camera because… what’s the point.

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The Kaibab Trail switchbacks down, down, down.

And so I will say very little about the Grand Canyon except that we hiked part of the North Kaibab Trail, and part of the Rim Trail, and that it was more than I can ever, ever convey to you.

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A team of mules takes a break while heading up the Kaibab Trail.

A Desert Adventure: Day 5

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On the day Ashley and I turned thirty and our youth died forever, we broke camp in darkness and drove out into the desert. For all that the Navajo National Monument feels remote, it’s actually quite close to civilization: we passed a school bus on our way west. A little outside the town of Page, we pulled into a nearly-empty parking lot and settled in for a long wait. We were here to see the famous Antelope Canyon.

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A Desert Adventure: Day 4

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The rising sun casts cool shadows over the Colorado River.

We woke on the banks of the Colorado River. This far north, the river was a tiny thing. The canyon it had carved through the red Moab rock was equally small, the walls barely high enough to delay the sunrise. In a few days we would see the Colorado again, but by then it would be a powerful river sunk deep within one of the largest canyons on the planet. The thought was almost too much to wrap my head around.

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Portland in the Spring

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We had to get out of the bus to go through Customs. It was gray, chilly day, and after we’d shuffled through the various lines and counters we milled uncertainly around the exit doors, unsure if we could get back on the bus yet. No one wanted to wait outside. A customs officer, his belt heavy with an array of weaponry, stomped over and glared at us.

“Everyone out!” he barked. “Go outside!”

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