Hatching nature’s heaven

Lessons from a Wyoming oasis on our relationship with nature

I needed an oasis, and here it was! (2019 John Clayton photo)

About five years ago, at the tail end of an unsatisfying camping trip in the Wyoming mountains, I came across a slice of heaven. Ever since, I’ve been thinking about why I reacted as I did, and what that says about human relationships to nature.

I hadn’t wanted to go camping that weekend. I was a bit stressed about work, my chronic illness was acting up, and none of my friends could get away. But it was the weekend of a Harley-Davidson rally, with a street dance a half-block from my house. I needed peace and quiet, so I drove to the mountains.

The mountains were surprisingly full, and I ended up with a lousy campsite. I suffered too many bugs, some rain, and frequent chilling temperatures. A long hike was pleasant, but the scenery was nothing special. My puppy had too much energy; at one point she escaped me and ran a half-mile to chase down and bite the tires of a police car. I didn’t regret my time in the mountains, but by Sunday morning I was ready to head home and put up with the last few hours of motorcycle noise.

On the way I was lured to stop at an oasis. A deep limestone canyon, tall cottonwood trees, a burbling river. I ended up staying a couple of hours there, my cares melting away. It was warmer down here in the valley, and even the puppy seemed awed, willing to behave and stay leashed. I felt in tune with the world, surrounded by beauty. But more than that: surrounded by a sense that things all fit together as they should. A sense of rightness.

Parkitecture, foliage, and limestone cliffs (2019 photo by John Clayton)

I was at a state-run fish hatchery. (I won’t name the hatchery or the mountain range because this is a nature essay, not a tourism guide.) Because the facility had been built in the 1930s, part of its charm was a series of old-fashioned log buildings and a well-manicured lawn. I recognized the effect immediately: parkitecture. I’d written, in Wonderlandscape and elsewhere, about how in 1904 Yellowstone’s Old Faithful Inn had largely invented this architectural trend combining the rustic with the luxuries of the early 20th century. The trend was then exported to dude ranches and reimported to many other types of buildings in many types of parks.

By the time this hatchery was built, there was a broadly-shared sense that any institutional building in a natural setting could benefit from parkitecture. I found the buildings themselves quaintly beautiful, in delightful harmony with their surroundings. At the hatchery, I was also drawn to the fact that these weren’t just cabins for wealthy tourists. They were places where scientists and technicians worked.

To me, one of the appeals of a workplace is its physical setting. Some people appreciate going to work in a classical courthouse, an earthy farm, a casual bookstore, or a towering skyscraper. Maybe some people get similar satisfaction out of working at a mall or a corporate office park, although I certainly wouldn’t. My love for bucolic college campuses for many years had me curious about academic life, obscuring the fact that I’m not actually much drawn to teaching.

And this hatchery was that type of place! On my visit, I spent some time imagining an alternative life: to live in this small town and commute every day to the pleasant dude-ranch campus. And then I remembered that I’m not actually much drawn to fishing.

I imagined working at such a setting (2019 photo by John Clayton)

Furthermore, I have conflicted feelings about hatcheries in the larger picture. In the 1930s, hatcheries were feel-good efforts to restore natural conditions. Fish were among the many glories of nature, and the act of trying to catch them was a gateway to other conservation activities. In a world where mines, dams, and other degradations were leading to fewer fish, more fish were better. All those years ago, Wyoming saw the benefits of a primitive form of ecotourism: providing more fish for anglers to catch.

Today many (though not all) scientists say that hatcheries’ net effect on fisheries is bad. Hatchery fish are genetically different from wild fish, and whether the genes compete or merge, the results are often undesirable. It’s a troubling insight, likely applicable to many other initiatives: We meant to do good. We meant to fix the harms of a previous generation. But maybe we were wrong.

And so that heaven I was drawn to: was it just the architecture, the foliage, and the canyon walls? Or was it also nostalgia for a simpler time, when humans believed that anything we did to aid nature was inherently good?

Since my hatchery visit, I’ve paid more attention to how this works for other people: the natural settings that people seem most drawn to, and what that says about them. For some of my friends, it’s a raw wilderness in an intact ecosystem. For others, it’s a dirt road spooling out into an empty desert. For my mother, it’s a perfectly manicured lawn-and-garden, where humans have curated the most aromatic spring blooms. For my father, it was a Cape Cod shoreline, balanced between century-old mansions and the endless sea.

And it’s made me think: Are all of us drawn to a strict sense of beauty? Or to a nostalgia for a moment when we thought we understood the “right” relationship between humans and nature?

Discussion:

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