Carving Out Space for Quiet Recreation

One weekend a couple of winters ago I was invited out for a weekend ski trip to a backcountry cabin. I had been to this cozy cabin before and looked forward to the invigorating runs through untracked powder, the meditative touring up ridgelines, and the camaraderie that a good day’s effort in the backcountry brings – all far from the hubbub of the ski resort. The glow that followed the natural high from the outing I knew would be with me for days afterwards, a contemplative counterweight to a relatively hectic lifestyle packed with work, family and information overload. We did most of the 8-mile approach to the cabin by snowmobile, then hiked the final steep mile on skis, carrying our food, sleeping bags, clothes and other essentials in bulging backpacks. It was a relief to shed most of our load at the cabin, and continue up the slopes with our day packs. We broke a narrow up-trail, zig-zagging across the lightly treed slopes on the north side of the basin. After several switchbacks we gained the ridge, took in the views and ripped off our climbing skins to reap our rewards. Ah! Nirvana! This was what it was all about – that carefree powder plunge that’s as close to flying as I’ve ever experienced. Alas, it was short-lived. We were at the bottom, getting ready to head up for a second run, when a loud buzzing met our ears, until now subjected only to the quiet swoosh of skis, rap of boots on bindings, and our own labored breathing. The gathering roar was now unmistakable – snowmobiles, interlopers from below. They were getting closer and it was clear they were in our basin. Before we knew it, they were on our slope, tearing up our pristine powder! In fairness, I should point out that the slope didn’t belong to us exclusively. It belongs to the federal government, which means it really belongs to all of us. But I was in no mood to share. So once I affixed skins to skis, I stomped over to the closest Ski-doo, where a helmeted dude sat happily, dressed top to bottom in a black, high-tech insulated suit. I arrived panting, exchanged pleasantries, and then got to the point. “You know, we’re just up here for the weekend, and we were really looking forward to some peace and quiet. Since you guys can cover a lot more ground than we can, do you think you could find another place to play?” I asked him. “Oh yeah. Sure! No problem – sorry about that,” he responded. He quickly rounded up the posse and they Ski-dooed right out of there. It wasn’t long before the buzzing turned to a distant whine and eventually disappeared. It was that easy. These guys came and interrupted our reverie, not to be jerks – as I had assumed - but because they were out having a grand old time exploring the area. They just didn’t understand that we have vastly different expectations in the backcountry and our desired experiences are not compatible. Sure, we had used a snowmobile, but as a tool to get closer to the high country, where we hoped to find peace and quiet. Still, snowmobiles and ski touring are not compatible from the quiet recreation point of view. I started backcountry skiing in St. Regis Basin, on the Montana side of Lookout Pass, years ago, where access for skiers was relatively easy. But I stopped going when it was taken over by snowmobiles. It seemed unpleasant and unsafe with the large numbers of machines high-marking on steep, open slopes. Fortunately, our national forests are large enough to accommodate most of our recreational uses. Some places are appropriate for snowmobiles. Others ought to be set aside as non-motorized meccas, whether through wilderness designation or otherwise, to protect the opportunity for personal renewal and challenge in a wildland setting. Another reason to keep some areas non-motorized, especially in the Selkirk Mountains, is for the protection of wildlife. The Selkirks are home to the last herd of mountain caribou that exist in the lower 48 states. The International Herd, as it is called, spends much of its time across the border near Stagleap Pass in British Columbia, but nearly every year, caribou are found in the northern reaches of the Idaho and Washington Selkirk Mountains. Snowmobile use in the Selkirks can frighten caribou and cut off their ability to travel through the high peaks, where they eke out a fragile existence, eating lichen and avoiding predators in the deep snow. Finally, catering to quiet recreation feeds the economy. Quiet recreation on the Panhandle National Forest contributes an estimated 104 jobs and $2.9 million annually to the local economy, according to an economic impact tool developed by Central Oregon Research Services. Some motorized use fans argue that the Forest Service’s multiple use mandate means that all uses should be allowed at all times everywhere. But that’s not the intent. In fact, wilderness areas are considered consistent with the purpose of the law that established multiple use as a management goal. I’m not saying that every place where I would like to ski or hike should be wilderness or closed to motorized recreation. In many cases it’s OK to let the users work things out amongst themselves, as we did on my weekend ski trip. Nor do I think snowmobilers and other motorized users have a right to go anywhere they want, just because modern machines can take them there. It’s all a matter of balance. And if we can recognize that we share common values – such as a sense of fairness and a great love for the outdoors – I believe we can reach an understanding that respects the desires and needs of non-motorized and motorized users alike. To gain a better understanding of the appeal of backcountry skiing, check out the Winter Wildlands Alliance Backcountry Film Festival, 7 p.m., Saturday, March 6, in the Sandpoint Events Center at Pine and Euclid. Tickets are only $5 at the door. The film festival is locally sponsored by the Idaho Conservation League, www.idahoconservation.org.