The few days I spent in a national park with hundreds of other campers suggests we’re not so divided.
By Kathleen Sharp, New York Times, Sept. 2, 2018; original article contains additional links
Ms. Sharp teaches writing at Santa Barbara City College in California.
image from article
It’s said that our country is hopelessly split [JB emphasis], torn apart by politics, religion and tribal factions. But after camping with a few hundred strangers this summer, I can say that conventional wisdom is wrong.
Certainly, these are dangerous days. Fires have been raging across the West, burning two million acres, an expanse that is roughly 10 times the size of New York City. Floods, a hurricane and severe heat have added to our woes. Then there’s the political discourse.
But there’s only so much calamity a soul can take. So after my friends and I managed to nab some campsites last month in Mount Rainier National Park in Washington State, we hit the road. A few hours later, we checked in with the ranger, who imparted a few simple rules, including no littering, no firearms and no campfires.
We followed motorcyclists astride Harleys in leather chaps and retirees in R. V.s and polyester slacks on the way to our camp site. Vans, pickup trucks and cars pulling campers had license plates from Arizona, Florida, Georgia, New Jersey, South Dakota and other states.
Bumper stickers staked out positions. There was a silhouette of a naked woman hoisting an assault rifle; a coiled rattlesnake superimposed on the words “Don’t Tread on Me”; and a few “Make America Great Again” decals. I spotted a “Bernie in 2020” sticker. And then there was this one: “When the Rapture comes can I have your car?”
But in the shadow of the majestic 14,411-foot-high Mount Rainier, none of those proclamations mattered. Hikers crowded trails, though the air was thick with ash and smoke from the fires. We passed four college-aged women breathing hard through their white N95 paper masks. We ran into three 20-something guys carrying climbing gear toward some yonder peak. “If you hear us hollering up there,” one of them told us, half-jokingly, “will you come and get us?”
By a subalpine meadow of lupine and hoary marmots, a Dutch woman was delighted to see my “Amsterdam” cap. “Have you been there recently?” she asked, surprised. No, I replied, “but I love your little town,” and she laughed. It felt good to welcome her and her family to our part of the world, and such a gorgeous one at that.
So as not to interrupt them, we gave wide berth to a father and his young daughter standing mesmerized before a waterfall, and to a man meditating on a mossy ledge. Climbing 1,000 feet higher, we ran into a military man and his wife, then bumped into them again at about 6,500 feet, where the snowpack began. In the shadow of the Nisqually Glacier, we shared lunch and chitchat. They were from Akron, Ohio, also known, they told us, as Rubber City. They had been saving to tour the Pacific Northwest and had finally made it here. At each rest stop, they vowed to climb even higher.
Not everyone minded his manners. The first evening a middle-aged woman with blue streaks in her hair bounced into our camp: “Do you have any charcoal briquettes I can borrow?” She and her three sons wanted to roast hot dogs on an open fire. Egad, we said, haven’t you heard about the ban on fires? One of my friends offered to let her use his propane stove, and for the next two nights, she was a friendly if ditsy guest.
Another night, an older man and woman lit a fire next to us, flames crackling under a tree bough. I reminded the woman of the fire ban but she waved it off: “We saw other people with campfires and figured it was O.K.” Fifteen minutes later, a ranger ordered them to extinguish their fire, which they did. Then, they motored off.
But in general people in our forest clearing were pleasant and considerate. Because there was no reliable Wi-Fi, radio, cell or TV reception, we could focus our attention on the Cascade asters, the soaring golden eagle, or the icy mountain glittering pink at sunset.
Over the years, I have backpacked, mule-packed and snowshoed into the back country, alone with my thoughts or with companions. But car camping with hundreds of others was an eye-opener. Most of the people I met wanted to have fun but were also conscious of our shared experience and went out of their way to respect it. People were polite, they stepped aside on trails to let others pass and offered their equipment and experiences. They were testament to the fact that as our public lands face increasing assaults, the national parks continue to draw multitudes from all walks of life. More than 331 million visits were recorded last year.
Now, I see more clearly that so that much of our “polarization” seems to be cooked up in a vat of social media, cable TV and talk radio to the benefit of those who gain from our divisions. Put average citizens in the woods, miles from home and away from their phones and other devices, and chances are they’ll lend you their stove, strike up a conversation and perhaps share beer.
More than anything, it seems that Americans want to be happy campers, if only for awhile.
Kathleen Sharp is a journalist, film producer and author.
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