Running toward change
The perils and pleasures of living where civilization and wilderness intersect
In the mid-1990s, a beautiful hayfield west of my Montana village sprouted a new crop: roads. The timothy hay had once been of such high quality that it was sent to Louisville for horses to eat at the Kentucky Derby. Now it was platted for five-acre lots.
I remember it well, because that was the spring I started running. A few years after I arrived in town, my doctor convinced me of the value of regular cardio. The Internet was providing me with large, relatively lucrative chunks of editing work. So I would sit in front of the computer for six or eight hours, and then take my dog to stretch and romp in the fresh air.
The former hayfield’s roads were flat and well drained. They unspooled across empty green turf beneath a 9,000-foot peak. Everything was carefully groomed for the benefit of potential buyers. Yet with no houses yet constructed, these avenues were free of pavement and traffic. This place was a runner’s paradise.
I felt conflicted about saying so. I preferred the world where this place was a hayfield. The Kentucky Derby distinction—which was strictly a rumor, but a key contributor to my community’s self-mythologizing—made it feel like a valuable hayfield. I didn’t like change.
Especially this change: development. Civilization invading the realm of nature. Houses like blots on the landscape. Each would sprout a yard, likely filled with non-native plants. Each disturbance of the soil—the road-building, the foundation-pouring, the tree-planting—would bring opportunities for weeds. And each application of weed-killer, along with each septic tank and each well drilled to water the lawn, would bring risks to the groundwater. It felt very much like despoiling a wilderness.
An ecologist would caution that a hayfield is not wilderness. Not pure nature. It’s been trammeled by man—planted, sprayed, irrigated, harvested, and shipped halfway across the country by belching diesel trucks for the pitiful purpose of entertaining some rich white man drinking mint juleps.
But wilderness also has a broader definition—an antidote to civilization—and that’s what I’d been running toward. A place without traffic, where a dog could roam free, without the sight or stench of factories or tenements or other people. A place where I could feel surrounded by rocks and plants and animals rather than my daily life.
Construction of the subdivision’s roads represented an illusion, of course, but a blessed one. They created a temporary window of access to this wilderness in the process of destroying it.
An economist would caution that such processes are inevitable. The world’s population is growing. The Internet makes Montana ever more accessible. At the time, I myself was benefiting from the increased wealth of an Internet-enabled career. I didn’t hate changes that benefited me. I was just a privileged white male hoping to deny to others the privilege of sharing my great running routes close to town.
How emotional would I get about this conflict? Would I seek to restrict the rights of others, such as the owner-developers of the hayfield-subdivision? Would I seek a subsidy from elsewhere, such as a nonprofit that might buy such a spot and preserve its trails? Would I condemn the entire region as ruined, or over, or not worth living in any more, and move on to some new virgin community?
There comes a point when you have to fight. Against the ruination of something you truly deeply love. Or the degradation of a big principle like nature or democracy or dignity. But how big, after all, was a good running route, and how much, really, did I love it? Maybe I should accept the inevitability of change, and take responsibility for my contribution to it?
Unable to choose, I ignored the issue. I tried to pretend, as I jogged around the empty subdivision during an abnormally warm and dry spring, that the runner’s paradise would last forever. This development was ahead of the marketplace, the lots would remain unsold, the roads wouldn’t go away but would effectively become trails, the hayfield would sadly become dandelions but at least this would become a locals’ recreation site rather than a collection of McMansions.
That illusion was shattered one day when a sign went up: “Leash Law Enforced.” Immediately I knew why. The place was brimming with an inordinate number of runners and dog-walkers just like me. Any ersatz-wilderness-for-all is never sustainable without some form of regulation. But to me—and especially my dog—this regulation was a horrific symbol of civilization trashing the wilderness.
Not everywhere. Not for every running route I’d ever discovered. Not for the entire community. Just here.
I realized that I had chosen—that I kept choosing—a life teetering on these knife-edges of wilderness-versus-civilization. I always looked for unspoiled running routes—but close to town. Always bought my dogfood at the decades-old feed store—but also patronized the espresso shop and microbrewery as soon as they opened. Always celebrated wildlife—but was tempted to drive through the flock of wild turkeys when they acted like they wouldn’t get out of the way. Always backpacked into official federal wilderness areas—but drove to the trailhead.
I never ran there again. I’ve visited houses in the subdivision, for holiday parties or garage sales, and it has felt like re-encountering a childhood friend who has dismayingly put on weight, embraced awful politics, and made other bad choices. You just have to carry on.
And express gratitude. There was a point in my life-journey, and in that landscape’s journey, where we intersected beautifully. It was just what I needed at that moment. Now my running habit is established, and if my other routes aren’t quite as lovely, they get the job done. Now, when I look at that subdivision, I see not the houses or the people or the roads or the weeds, but those long-ago spring afternoons, and the hope and glory and fulfillment that I was privileged to feel.