Getting away from it all

“I found the simple life ain’t so simple.” – Van Halen

If you had told me, 20 years ago, that I would become a regular user of a public park, I would have thought this highly unlikely – or even preposterous. For one thing, there were no parks around here. We live in a somewhat remote rural area largely comprising farms and woodlands, where there are very few tourists seeking a place to picnic or perambulate. Culturally and economically, the concept of parks was somewhat foreign to this community. In any case, our own home afforded us a great deal of elbow room. I have the luxury of walking out the back door into the fields and forests – so why would I go to a public place designed according to someone else’s notions of outdoor leisure?

Well, my outlook has changed a bit. Our municipality has recently developed a park on a large parcel of land at the edge of the village. It is unfancy, and mostly natural. There are no expanses of manicured lawn, no ornamental plantings, no buildings or lighting. The infrastructure consists of a few wooden playground structures, a couple benches, and an extensive network of paths meandering through the woods, connected to the trans-provincial rail-trail.

If this facility had existed when our children were young, we would have used it frequently, because sometimes kids and parents alike need a change of scene – a different swing set, a more challenging jungle gym, or just a place to rack up some mileage on the stroller without having to contend with road traffic. It would have been a significant quality-of-life improvement for us, and even more so for local families living on small residential lots or in apartments. In hindsight, proximity to a nice park is one of the factors I would advise people to consider when they are thinking about where to settle down, even out in the country. (A nearby swimming spot is another important community asset to look for. In the Maritimes especially, access to the water should be recognized as a human right.)

As work progressed on the trails, I was impressed with the low-impact design and construction techniques, which involved following the land’s contours, and keeping excavation to a minimum. In most places, runoff is dispersed rather than channelled through ditches, and rocked swales allow water to flow across the trail instead of through a culvert.

It occurred to me that this approach would be attractive to some small woodlot owners who do not need or want an industrial-grade road system engineered to accommodate semi-trailers. For anyone wishing to combine recreational use with some silviculture and some firewood harvesting, such trails could provide access for a compact tractor, without the expense and the ecological disruption involved in clearing a wide corridor and laying down a substantial roadbed.

For a while, I considered possible routes through our land where we could build some trails like that. But as time went on, I grew fonder of the park, and I realized that I enjoyed it partly because it is a public place, not a personal responsibility. Sure, we could build a trail network of our own, where we would have absolute privacy – but the fact is, we don’t really need more privacy, nor do we need another damn project. What we need, occasionally, is a change of scene, and an opportunity to put aside all thought of tasks and objectives. When I walk in our woodlot, I am constantly seeing blowdowns that could be salvaged, roadside brush that should be cleared back, and stands that could benefit from thinning. My proprietary feeling about the land prevents me from being entirely relaxed there.

I still derive considerable satisfaction from running the chainsaw or the tractor – being fully engaged, mentally and physically, in productive activity. But these are solitary pursuits. Sometimes, I want a chance to stretch my legs in the great outdoors while having a conversation with a friend or a family member. It’s a sign of my age, no doubt, that I sometimes prefer to stroll on a gravel path. It’s quiet and peaceful and nearly effortless. In other words, it’s a walk in the park.

And when we see other people there – the physical-fitness types on mountain bikes, seniors with their walking poles, or parents milling around while their kids burn off some steam – it actually enhances our enjoyment of the place. We exchange pleasantries with strangers, and sometimes we meet a neighbour who wants to chat. “Lovely day, eh? Great park!”

ALL ALONE?

I got thinking about our society’s relationship with nature, and our conceptions of public and private space, after reading news reports this August about Matty Clarke being forced to dismantle his cabin in the Yukon. Clarke is the shaggy-haired, doe-eyed Newfoundlander who amassed a huge number of social-media followers over the past couple years as he chronicled his adventure into the semi-wilderness south of Dawson City. There was some goofy pretext of prospecting for gold, but whatever riches he found were probably generated from his YouTube channel.

If Clarke had merely wanted to experience the sublime beauty of that landscape, while challenging the limits of his mind and body, he could have undertaken an epic solo camping trip up there. But instead, he took a notion to claim a piece of the outback as his own, and set about felling timber to build a log home, all the while broadcasting to the world about what a cool project this was. He ignored warnings against squatting on public land in the traditional territory of the Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in First Nation, and eventually the territorial government took legal action to give him the boot.

Clarke’s “Alone in the Yukon” videos are fun to watch, but there’s a weird disconnect between their high production values and their creator’s allegedly bare-bones existence. The setup seems as contrived as one of those reality television shows featuring attractive people who are “stranded” together on a desert island. Also, one is struck by all the purchased resources this guy has at his disposal – the boat and the motor, the guns and ammo, the chainsaw sawmill and other tools, and, in a pinch, transport by helicopter. Clearly it’s more fun to get back to basics when you have awesome toys. There is some great drone footage of this digital-age Thoreau out for a joyride on his high-performance snowmobile, carving powder on the frozen river. Such are the simple pleasures of the frontiersman, one supposes.

Clarke should certainly be credited as a success in the entertainment industry. He has the gift of the gab, as well as good comic timing, a penchant for spontaneous dancing, and a self-deprecating charm that would be wasted if he were ever to choose a truly solitary life. What I find odd is the fact that many people took him seriously, as if he were proving an important point or providing valuable instruction. Clarke actively encouraged viewers to go out and live in the wilderness, insisting that if a normal dude like him can obtain this invigorating and authentic experience, anyone can. He was a rough-hewn self-help guru, preaching empowerment through bushcraft. I don’t doubt that he exhibited real perseverance and learned some potentially useful skills out there. But it’s funny that this seemingly self-reliant individual was actually quite needy – craving the adoration of followers, not to mention the attendant revenue stream.

Most of us have felt the desire to “get away from it all,” though this means different things to different people. During the pandemic, one manifestation of our collective battiness was a surge in the number of people seeking to get off the grid and off the radar. In fact, it eventually came to light that there were a couple other squatters within hailing distance of Clarke’s cabin, so he was not quite as alone as he would have had us believe. (Other details omitted from his online narrative may come to light eventually.) Wilderness pilgrims have also flocked to other remote places across Canada, and private interests have been quick to capitalize on the trend, with developments such as Boreal Forest Medieval Villages in Ontario’s Timiskaming District.

I can appreciate the romantic appeal of disappearing from our increasingly complex society, but some people get wrapped up in this fantasy, ignoring the practical and political implications. There is this strange conceit that living in the wilderness is somehow ennobling. Perhaps it makes a person feel close to nature, but that’s not the same thing as living sustainably. If any significant proportion of our population decided to rough it in the bush, the ecological impacts would be dire. There’s no efficiency, no economy of scale – and if things go awry, no security.

Some will see Matty Clarke’s eviction as an example of government over-reach. Can’t a man be left alone these days? Perhaps not – especially if he blathers on about it. It’s a mostly-hypothetical First-World problem, and one that should not concern us too much. Not many people will try to copy Clarke’s grand adventure; for most, it was an experience to be enjoyed vicariously – just harmless escapism. However, it’s worth reflecting on why we find it so appealing. Maybe we should seek more modest remedies for our little existential crises, instead of fostering the cynical culture of survivalism. DL