OPEN SPACES

I just finished reading a book, “Oregon Trail” by Rinker Buck that a friend bought  me. In it he chronicles his trip, from Missouri to Oregon, in a covered wagon, pulled by a team of mules. I couldn’t help but get swept up in his love for wide-open spaces, and those mules. Open spaces that are fast disappearing in the western United States. One can only imagine the hardships the pioneers went through to fulfill their dreams of owning land in the west. The wagon ruts are still visible in many places, and so are the graves of some of the settlers who succumbed to disease, starvation, and accidental death on that trip to fulfill a dream, some 180 years ago.

Growing up as a kid in the Staples area, I would often wander to the Crow Wing River north of town. I would walk down to the river and fish as I walked along the bank, and then hike back through the woods to where I left my bike, ride the five miles home, and hardly see a soul. I was one and alone with nature and the great outdoors, and that was—and still is—the way I like it. I have been to theme parks all over this great land, but they all pale in comparison in my estimation, to the natural paradise the good Lord gave us.

A few years back, right here in Crosslake, I took my dog, and starting from Big Pine Lake, in a canoe, I followed the river down to where it intersects with County 11. A short trip, for sure, but the river meanders through many miles of wilderness and pristine country. I took my time, and one night we camped on the riverbank, sleeping in an old pup tent. Gus slept with one ear cocked, so I wasn’t afraid of critters. We had a campfire, ate pork and beans, and roasted hot dogs. That night, lying with my head out the tent flap, I had never seen the stars so bright. I enjoyed that total silence that is so hard to find. I didn’t bring a phone.

It’s so hard to get off the beaten path, anymore, because the paths I speak of have been beaten down everywhere. Four wheelers and snowmobiles have crisscrossed the large section of woods across from my house. They leave ruts you could break an ankle on, and stagnant pools of mosquito-infested water. Once they have beaten down the brush enough, the pickup trucks are not far behind. The garbage is everywhere, and the animals retreat deeper and deeper into the woods. Molly and I like to escape to the woods for our nature walks, but many times we have to move off the trail so some vehicle can get by. I know it’s just a matter of time before it won’t be fun anymore.

The early pioneers left their comfortable homes in the east because they were disenfranchised with what had happened to the land and the people out there. They reached a point where all that was left was to escape. They had one thing going for them—an unblemished place to escape to—something that no longer exists unless you have the money to buy a big tract of land. Even then, there is no reassurance that, someday, an oil rig will pull up and show you the papers that let them drill on your land for oil; to feed the enormous appetite of all of those motorized vehicles that are just waiting to chew up that same piece of land.