Putting Price Tags on Parks

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Canyonlands National Park in Utah is one of the parks with a proposed increased entrance fee.

Once upon a time, a man named Gutenberg invented the printing press. Before that books were copied by hand, making them expensive and rare, available only to the societal elite.

And then along came Gutenberg and everything changed. There were more books in circulation. More people began to read. The worlds of ink and paper that had existed for a small minority exploded into existence for the masses. Mankind was changed forever, not by the existence of books but by their sudden accessibility.

It’s not a unique situation. Accessibility is always an issue in technology, but it affects other spheres as well, such as art, food, education, and yes, public parks.

The Trump administration is considering increased entrance fees to 17 of the most visited national park. It’s not a mere $5 or $10 hike in price, however. The proposal would double, or in some cases triple, entrance prices to $70 per vehicle. An entrance pass gets you access to one park for up to seven days.

On the front, the administration says this plan is intended to create more revenue for the parks, which they desperately need. These increased rates would raise an additional $70 million for the parks.

But the government is also proposing steep cuts. The president’s 2018 budget cuts nearly $400 million from the parks budget.

Even a non-mathlete like myself can see things don’t add up. It’s not about increasing funding to the parks, it’s about shifting the burden of responsibility for who pays for that funding.

Our national parks are underfunded and overcrowded, and yes, raising entrance fees theoretically would help alleviate these issues. But the deeper issue at debate here is who has access to these spaces. National parks already have a diversity issue–most visitors are white, wealthy, and middle-aged–and raising fees would be yet another barrier of entry for people with less money or who don’t live in communities that place as much value on natural spaces.

I wish I had something funny to say about all this, some witty Bolshevik quip about Russian elitism or something, but I’m empty handed. With Trump’s recent approval to shrink Bears Ears and Grand-Staircase Escalante Monuments in Utah, it’s clear that this administration cares little about public land.

In a way, it’s a circular problem. The current administration doesn’t care about protecting public lands, which then impedes the public from experiencing and enjoying them. Which then creates people who also don’t care about wilderness because they had little exposure to it.

I can tell you that big trees are amazing and important,  but until you stand in front of General Sherman yourself and try in vain to capture the towering sequoia in a single frame on your iPhone, craning your neck to see its broccoli-like branches way up high, it won’t mean as much to you.

When did you last visit a park, national or otherwise? Where did you go? How dirty were your shoes? What did the sunlight feel like on your skin?

The government is accepting public comments about this proposal until November 23. So if you’ve ever visited a park or been touched by nature in any shade or fashion, take a moment and share your story and why you think public spaces should remain as accessible as possible.

Click here to comment.

Of Mice and Mountaintops

 

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Bernard and I breakfasted together the morning after our introduction. Honestly I would’ve kept him around longer, but he had boundary issues and tried to run up my leg while I was driving, a major no-no.

I am writing this at 10:09 PM on a Thursday night in a WalMart parking lot. My car smells overwhelmingly of curry. My car doesn’t normally smell of curry.

When I committed myself to a solo road trip—a mini foray into the shallows of vanlife—I was ready for the Big Stuff. Mountaintop vistas. Sunsets on beaches. Sitting in the woods with my feet propped up, beer in one hand, book of Rilke’s poetry in the other. I thought everything I Instagrammed would also be the most profound, enjoyable moments, as if the physical grandeur of the landscapes around me would reverberate at the same internal frequency of awe.

And they do.
Sometimes.

But sometimes I hike 10 miles, look around, shrug my shoulders, and head back down. Sometimes I don’t leave my car to take a picture and it remains only that—a photograph with no backing behind the veneer. Empty.

What I didn’t prepare myself for was the Small Moments. Like when I forgot my garbage outside my car for a couple of hours and then discovered at four in the morning when I felt something scurrying across my sleeping bag that I’d accidentally brought a mouse in along with my empty Pringles’ cans. It wouldn’t leave, despite me opening all the doors and asking nicely and waving a spatula about. My tent smelled of onions and peanut butter the next night as I curled up in the woods with all of my groceries, hoping the mouse traps in my car worked. (RIP Bernard. In the words of Fall Out Boy, thanks for memories even though they weren’t so great.)

Similarly, I was under prepared for the curry disaster of September 21, 2017. Knowing the tupperware was prone to leaks, I’d wrapped my flannel around it and stabilized it with my pillow. And then, because I’m an idiot, I forgot about it, only to suddenly remember it when I came back to my car after brushing my teeth in WalMart and wondering why my car smelled so weird.

It wasn’t even good curry, mind you. I’d made it myself on the bank of the Sol Duc River in the Olympics with coconut milk, spices, and WalMart-purchased vegetables. So it was very mediocre curry. And it smelled not great.

It had seeped into my flannel, drenched my pillow, and pooled onto my air mattress. It had been a long day of driving, and all I wanted to do was sleep. My body tightened in frustration at the mess before me.

But I had soap and a sponge. I had a towel. I cleaned up the mess, rolled down the windows, and ate an entire bag of gummies in the driver’s seat to make myself feel better.

My car regained its normal smell about three days later.

When you go out into the world things will happen to you. Yes, there will be beautiful mountaintops and sunsets, but there will also be field mice and mediocre curry in your sleeping area. And the mountaintops will give you better pictures, but the mice will give you better stories. And that feeling of overcoming an unexpected crisis—even if it’s mouse-sized, even if it’s in the WalMart parking lot—may feel more rewarding than that 10 mile slog.

So say yes, go out into the world, see what’s there, cry a little, feel inspired, feel proud, wash your hair in rivers, sleep in your car, say hi to strangers, see what the world hands you when your eyes are closed.

Curry-tinged dreams are better than no dreams at all. Even if they involve mice.