Opinion

Dear Editor:

   The recently reported vandalism of a backcountry bridge in the headwaters of the Castle River, while disturbing, was little more than a passing reflection of society’s ongoing frustration with the lack of meaningful management of public lands. Perhaps it’s time to abandon false expectations and throw in the sponge.

   Here in the headwaters of the Castle, Crowsnest and Oldman rivers, society doesn’t have time to sweat this brand of—vandalism-asusual— small stuff. It doesn’t have time to worry about ancient trees, rare plants, or the litany of abuses that occur. It can’t afford to lose sleep over landscape degradation, or bother to manage the off-the-chart strife that’s created by an army of conflicting forest users. There are more important things to do. To be fair, it isn’t as if the managers planned it this way. They simply haven’t managed to prevent this outcome. They haven’t done what they’ve been paid to do.

   Here in the Headwaters Wilderness, society’s resource managers have taken a back seat, next to the exit. There they monitor the situation by simply watching as the landscape’s many users, all dissatisfied, wage war on centre stage.

   Standing in the spotlight, freedom-fighting mountain men (and women) write their own rules while pointing vindictive fingers at these same pantywaist managers: men and women who are paid to smile in the face of public ridicule and scorn. Come on down. The show’s free, and it’s playing daily. You, too, can join in this chaos. It’s all part of a deviant fantasy. Don’t worry, you can’t upset this little applecart; it has already been flipped and smashed into a million splintered pieces.

   Here in the Headwaters Wilderness, society’s chanted demand is “Mountain Freedom.” It’s each person’s undeniable right to do anything he (or she) wants on an anything goes landscape. Here, on public land that’s worth absolutely nothing, you can hike or ride your horse past screaming dirt bikes. You can smash beer bottles in the creek, camp wherever you like, set up your toilet on a stream bank, cut down trees, create your own roads, dig up rare vegetation and shoot anything your heart desires. Here in the Headwaters Wilderness you can simply throw away the rulebook and take charge. It’s your landscape, yours to destroy any way you see fit.

   Faux cowboys ride this free range on dirt bikes and quads. Their abuse is everywhere, and it’s familiar in the way that a bad neighbor is familiar. But that’s okay. That’s how we like it. Society, ever tolerant, tends to sugarcoat this maltreatment by rounding up some billboards and a few 2X4s to prop up a false illusion: that the word wild still exists in the Headwaters Wilderness. The message: At the base of this tree stump is a picture of the living tree that once grew here. Despite alluring marketing, the Headwaters Wilderness is an industrial trash bag. It’s lined and littered with smashed cans, broken bottles, old refrigerators and yesterday’s oil change. There are tire tracks up the creek. And over in that valley wallowing in what your grandfather called “the finest spring in the Rockies” is a herd of cattle. Do you know how much water a single cow drinks in a day? Neither do I, but that isn’t the problem, is it? Don’t worry. You can still hike through the heart of the anythinggoes Headwaters Wilderness. You can climb the stunning mountains overlooking the magnificence of The Cow Pie Reserve and Pipeline Provincial Park. You’ll simply share this managed forest with logging trucks, Winnebagos, strip mines, gas wells, drilling rigs, equestrian operators, hunters, social deviants, family gatherings, Sunday drivers, dirt bike rallies and thousands of cows. This heavenly expanse is connected with roads—lotsa roads.

   Be careful! You can still get a mosquito bite in this wilderness, and the bite may itch. But if it gets too bad, just hit the throttle. You can get back to town in no time.

   I’ve brought you to the Headwaters Wilderness just in time for a noontime showdown. Facing off at the intersection are trailerhauling cattle ranchers, rig- hauling gas field workers and an army of off-road quad riders and dirt bikers. The dust is thick, the coyotes are nervous and two wideeyed horses are bucking their way into the shadows.

   Diverse combatants have met at the Crossroads From Hell. Seconds tick by, and then the rule of the wilderness prevails: The biggest rig goes first!