Spirit of Place (Excerpts)

Part of my intention in compiling this anthology is to challenge limiting concepts of what we think wilderness is. For years, my way of seeing wilderness was biased. Nature, in my mind, was rug- ged snowcapped peaks, remote pristine areas, and the absence of other people. I was a “peak-bagger, ” having spent a number of years climbing the fourteeners (14,000-foot peaks) of Colorado. I liked the challenge of these hikes. I enjoyed the workout and the grand views. 1 reveled in the spirit of conquest and in being on the edge of something much bigger than I imagined myself to be.

Such an attitude toward nature is not only common, it is actually encouraged in the vast majority of wilderness education and adventure organizations. While most outfitters and outdoor educators are environmentally sensitive and aware in terms of minimal impact, the whole premise of many outdoor recreation and rehabilitation programs is one of personal growth through having ones limits tested. Nature becomes a worthy opponent, a shaper of character, molding and calling forth the qualities of courage, determination, endurance, willpower, and teamwork. In the world of outdoor magazines there is a plethora of hunting, fishing, rock climbing, and backpacking journals with an endless stream of advertisements offering expensive adventure-based trips. Such publications, and the organizations they support, commonly reflect and reinforce the view of nature as something to be conquered and overcome, separate and apart from man.

Fortunately for me, after my adolescent and college surge of testosterone had settled down a bit, I began to alter my own attitude and approach toward nature. This, in part, was due to the grace of my companions who complained about my insistence to hike into and camp in the most difficult of wilderness terrain. Frequently, I was pushing them—and also myself^ beyond healthy and nurturing limits. My obsessive drive caused me to miss much of the beauty and peace that surrounded me.

Slowly and gradually I began to value pacing myself, covering less distance and camping in less dramatic areas. Forests and valleys started to appeal to my tastes as much as did peaks and extreme exposure. . . .

What is it that gives spirit to a particular place? I propose that spirit is discovered in our openness and in our receptivity, and that it is not found anywhere in particular. Spirit is in us and it is present everywhere we go. Certain places — mountains, oceans, and sacred sites — may embody an especially strong energy that evokes a feeling of depth and spirituality in us; but it is the quality of our living stillness (and not the actual, external landscape) that ultimately brings us into the recognition of the essence of nature — that which is found both in the woods and in us. Through the simple act of being still inside and resting our minds, we come to know spirit in a very personal and direct manner. And while certain locations may have healing qualities and strong memories attached to them, each time we revisit these sites our relationship is unique, as it is with revisiting an old friend. Nothing repeats itself in quite the same way.

Spirit is not some inert and constricted force. It is not contained in one area and absent from another. It is not even an it. In order to speak intelligently of the spirit of place, I think it is paramount that we look to both the experiencer and to the place, and, more important, to that which carries both the experiencer and the place. If we inquire into the center of this larger field of experience, it becomes impossible and ridiculous to distinguish person from place. Spirit unites these apparent separate realities into a resplendent, expanding, and abundant wholeness.