Off The Grid
It is eight o’clock on a Friday night. You head over to a friend’s ‘luxury’ apartment for a few drinks before venturing out for the evening’s festivities. There are five to six other friends there. You all sit around the couch watching some variation of a sport involving a ball. You all have your phones in hand or nearby, periodically checking them. At points you swipe around on them simultaneously, nose locked to the digital grindstone. Time shortens when you’re in the world of 1’s and 0’s.
It is eight o’clock on a Friday night. You head out onto the porch of a friend’s ranch house for a few drinks by the fire. There are five to six other friends there. You all sit around the fire and listen to classic country songs. You all left your phones inside because there is no service here. At points you all fall silent simultaneously, letting your thoughts drift amongst the mystical night air. Time stretches out when your attention isn’t competed for.
This was how I spent my weekend--getting lost in time, my thoughts, and the world with friends both old and new. It was refreshing to be outside, but even more so to see my contemporaries be completely at peace without their pocket screens. Amongst all of us, there was an acceptance of forced disconnection. No service? No problem. Civilization would continue on without us. Work can wait until Monday. The conversations meandered like the streams in the hill country, becoming wider and deeper in places. The friendships that were strengthened and forged felt richer.
Wilder-less
Earlier in the week I was fortunate enough to visit Hamilton Pool outside of Austin. For the past three years I have harbored a strong desire to see this breathtaking area. Honestly, it looks like something from an alien world. However, in order to see the pool you must make a reservation for a morning or afternoon time slot. For reference: it is April as of this writing and every weekend is booked until the end of September. A few friends commented that it’s crazy that a reservation is required. They should get to see the awesomeness of nature whenever they want to. This sentiment is widely held and one that I agree with. But, I agree with the opposite even more: that some areas are so special that they must be carefully preserved from the most harmful force there is—people.
The Wilderness Act of 1964 defined wilderness in the United States as:
“A wilderness, in contrast with those areas where man and his own works dominate the landscape, is hereby recognized 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.”
There are a few things to unpack in this definition. First, wilderness stands as a contrast to civilization. It is an area that is disconnected from society. Second, when you venture into wilderness you are a visitor. Connecting to wilderness has a time limit. If you were to remain there, then it would no longer be wilderness. Wilderness itself is a paradox. At this point, with a global population of over 8 billion, the disconnection of wilderness must actively be maintained. Without the resources of the federal, state, and local government, the extensive legal framework, and individuals, these wilderness areas would not exist.
It is in the boundary lines demarcating wilderness v non-wilderness that connection and disconnection are most visible. In designating an area as wilderness, there is an imaginary wall thrust up with a sign that says “Civilization stops here. Area of disconnection ahead.” These are havens of the wild, set apart as islands on the ever-expanding sea of civilization. When in these lands you are connected to wilderness, disconnected from civilization.
So how’s this tie back to the fact you were at a ranch where no one was on their phone all weekend, Holden? Funny you should ask! While it was far from the legal definition of wilderness, the situation closely resembled the research I conducted in Big Bend National Park. In the vast majority of the park there was no cell service. In a few sweet spots, visitors could manage to find a few bars. My question was: what happens when someone can Instagram a photo while in a wilderness area? What kind of connection is made? Does it disconnect the person from wilderness? Does it change, well, anything?
Admittedly there are no answers. Just more questions. The age of social media (#wilderness) and smartphones (aka everyone-now-has-a-camera-in-their-pocket) has dramatically changed the way that connections to wilderness are made, and what these connections are. I do think wilderness has changed in lockstep with those of the world. It needs to be defended now more than ever. More importantly, it needs to be experienced—and connected to—by more people.
The next time you venture into one of the 109,511,038 acres of wilderness in the U.S., briefly pause before crossing in. Take a moment to remember how special these places are. That this is a place apart from your normal world, but also within it. On your way out make sure to notice the sign on the imaginary wall: “Hope you enjoyed your visit. Sorry you couldn’t stay. Please, come again!”
