"Desert Solitaire": Response 3

My wife grew up in Price, Utah, near the center of the state. When I began reading Edward Abbey’s book I asked her what she knew of Arches National Park and if she’d ever been there. She hadn’t visited, but not for lack of want. Her family moved several times and the opportunity simply never presented itself. She did mention, however, that Lake Powell was nearby and that to her knowledge during spring break a great mass of college students would take to the lake for several days of stress-ridding debauchery – meaning they do all the things they normally do in dormitories and frat houses, but they do it on water and rocks instead. “Let’s all have fun together” is the theme. And Edward Abbey might just be rolling over in his grave.

Abbey’s voice is well defined. His opinions on the sacredness of nature are strict and he defends them with hard and fast descriptions and an almost breathtaking imagery. He identifies, with a definitive accuracy, the plant and animal life in the areas he lives and patrols. He is a man of conviction and it shows in this prose.

Abbey, while exploring the idea of Industrial Tourism, challenges the typical notion of progress. Woven into a rich description of scenery and natural life is a sarcasm pointed at the institutions responsible for the development of what he terms “Arches Natural Money-mint.” He even goes so far as to call the engineers responsible for surveying the land for the pavement of an access road, madmen. At no point does he leave his readers without a thick dose of cynicism. “Progress has come at last to the Arches, after a million years of neglect. Industrial Tourism has arrived.” Good one, Mr. Abbey, good one.

Even the human population isn’t exempt from Abbey’s abrasive opinions. “I’d rather kill a man than a snake,” he says when faced with a rattler staring at his feet one morning. And as he heads off down the Colorado River on a rubber-rafting excursion, he is more than happy to “not see another of the tool-making breed for a long time.” Despite humorous quips like these, he makes a good argument for leaving the parks unchanged (or not unnaturally developed) so that people can enjoy them on a purely fundamentalist scale. “Park your car, (insert long list of vehicular machinery) get on your horse, mule, bicycle or feet, and come on in. Enjoy yourselves,” he says. “This here park is for people.” Personally, I respect his ideals, but I don’t know that I can agree with him completely.

Having said that, I do not intend to attack Abbey. On the contrary, I admire his writing style and his sense of conviction. He is a man of principle and a writer of the highest magnitude. However, I also do not intend to defend his position either. The deep sense of closeness that he discovered during his time in Utah (in one moment he calls it “the old magic destroyed”) is not so different than experiences I’ve had in the forests of Pennsylvania. At the same time, however, I was, years ago, one of those wild college kids doing shots of Jagermeister upside down on a pontoon boat. But nature changes more than rocks and trees. Indeed, it changes you and me. And now, while you won’t find me shooting cigarette butts into the lake or tossing beer cans out the window of my “upholstered mechanized wheelchair”, I will, one day, drive my car down the smoothly paved road so my daughter can experience that feeling of closeness with nature, that magic, and so my wife can finally enjoy a century’s old wonder of her home.