Arizona State of Mind

Conor’s father’s Big Blue Chevrolet rumbled along until the beast of burden came to a dirt parking lot. Unloading our packs from the back, we hoisted on our weights and sallied forth down the path. The gentle downhill trail was welcoming. As the terrain leveled out, we found ourselves confronted with a creek crossing. Sounds easy, except with 30 lbs. strapped to your back in an awkward, lumpy sack, not so. Still, the sight of natural water seemed miraculous to the four of us: my dad, Conor, his dad, and me. Not only did we gape at the water, but also at the lush foliage it provided: thick trees, and grass three feet tall, taller than any of had seen in Arizona. Alternating between path and brush, we meandered through the canyon, to the music of the gurgling water. It was certainly tiring work, but work we gladly chose to see the sunlight dance through almond-shaped leaves above us.
We arrived at a suitable campsite four miles later, and set up our tents. Nature and freedom rang with every action. It was liberating to be away from the confines of the metropolis, and in the natural element. We cooked sausages on sticks around a campfire, chatting into the night. The schedule for the next day: explore more. We found liberty in a beautiful place, and when such a dream is realized, the only proper reaction is amazement. Equally amazing was that this alien landscape was only few hours out of Phoenix.
During my freshman year of high school, my dad and I took frequent treks into the wilderness, often with my friends from school and their parents. Whenever we could find the time, we would pack all necessities into our backpacks and drive to a spot within the state to venture forth and find a place to sleep for the night. These backpacking trips were the height of my freshman year of high school and bestowed an appreciation for the resources of Arizona. Each time we descended into Devil’s Canyon, or traversed the Superstitions, or sought out caves south of Tucson, I was amazed by the flavors of the land. From the crisp mountains of the north to the paradoxical lushness of the deserts of the south, Arizona seemed to span the world in all its menagerie. And though I felt amazement, I did not feel complacency or contentment. Instead, I felt apprehension for the stability of these wonders. I could not believe that in an age of technology, a human being could return to their roots with a two-hour drive. So unbelievable I feared it wouldn’t last.
Every environmental activist impresses upon the public the fragility of the wild country, as the world becomes right angles and aluminum. We proceed with our lives in uneasy contentment, while losing the lands we hold dear is a constant threat. This feeling fades, and we become more and more complacent. The tragedy of urban waste continues. This forgetfulness is caused by the fact that the artificial environment surrounds most of us, including myself. As I sit in my small dorm room, elevated by 50 feet of concrete, I can look out my window only to see a green lawn in a courtyard. I see that lawn trying to escape from the chokehold of the concrete jungle obscuring the horizon.
I do not reject the merits of civilization. There is a time and a place for humans to grow our manufactured ivies, wrapping their way through nature. If these cement plants grow uninhibited, they will overrun the ecosystem. With no natural predators to keep it in check, civilization is an invasive vine. It crushes the trees it grows on, and exhausts the soil it creeps over. Left unchecked, the grey tendrils of humanity’s runaway plant will choke out all other life. But by what mechanism can an organism learn to restrain itself?
The prominent tactic of environmentalists is an onslaught of dour statistics. Using doom and gloom imagery to convince people to change how they think about protecting the environment often causes them to instinctively reject the negative feelings associated with their current ways of life. To protect the environment, we must empathize with it. The superior alternative is to implant the seed of sympathy for the environment, so that it grows and produces the fruit of caring and concern. The most immediate way to accomplish this is to persuade people to experience the landscapes around where they live. This was the ultimate benefit of my treks into Arizona. Glories of the natural world were not simply tales told in tomes, but the flesh of my home state. I reveled not only in its beauty, but also in its accessibility.
Some argue that the efforts of environmentalists such as Al Gore protect the environment by appealing to the logical mind of viewers and listeners, especially when supported with an onslaught of abrasive statistics, leading to fear. We might remember, however, that love is stronger than fear. What better way to persuade than to nurture a love for the land you live on? If the general population feels a deep love for their local environs, the academics’ stats and figures will be much more effective. Instinctively we deny seemingly distant threats to ourselves, but we protect what we care deeply about. Just as we lie to ourselves about what needs to be done about our debt or weight, so do we deny threats to the world. The best wake-up call is not to know the danger, but to know what could be lost.