Yet here we are buying bottled water even by the cup. People buy teeny bottles that hold less than 8 ounces of water. Then while hiking or traveling, they drink and then toss.

Plastic marked PET and HDPE for are said to be recyclable. Said bottles are shredded and melted into “nurdles,” the picturesque name for plastic pellets used as raw material to make more plastic products.

That sounds promising, but according to the Container Recycling Institute, 70% of all bottles wind up in landfills, the ocean, or littering the landscape.  On trails in Grand Canyon National Park, I mostly pick up empty water bottles, each one probably weighing one-third of an ounce. It seems a job that will never be obsolete. Shouldn’t we have learned by now that refilling water bottles is the way to go?

We’ve all learned that plastic is nasty stuff. Yale Climate Connections cautions that each time plastic is melted and remolded it degrades, and recycled plastic is more toxic than “virgin.” The plastic can be “up-cycled” once into a fleece jacket, but eventually that jacket will get shuffled off to the landfill. 

The real reason to drink bottled water is because of its purity, right? Pure fill-in-the-blank spring water. Yet the Los Angeles Times found that about 64% of bottled water is filtered tap water, and Consumer Reports found that bottled water can contain heavy metals and bacteria. A liter of bottled water might contain an average of 240,000 plastic micro-particles.

Even if bottled water comes from a spring, it must still undergo filtration and ozonization, meaning it is no longer “pure” spring water. Most spring water is also said to be minimally treated to maintain its “natural” characteristics, whatever those are.

Let’s talk about the carbon footprint. Is it green behavior to fly water across the country from a remote Pacific island?  In areas where water is mined locally, sometimes from public land, are locals concerned about depleted aquifers? Is that water taken for bottling—in effect—stolen?

Then there’s designer water with all kinds of flavoring, hydrogen water, which adds more H2, or oxygen-enriched water.  At what point does water become sort-of-or-not-water? 

I was once on a VIP tour of a resort in the desert that boasted bespoke water. When those bottles ran out, I offered to refill them, but people told me they would drink nothing from the tap. So I took the bottles into the company van, refilled them from a huge, portable jug that had been filled from who-knows-where but probably the tap, and handed them back. I was told triumphantly: “See? This water is superior.”

At the beginning of the Bright Angel Trail in Grand Canyon one day, I saw a hiker trying to tie a flat of bottled water onto her pack. I politely ask what the Sam Hill she was doing and was told that she’d been advised to drink a liter of water every hour while hiking. I pointed out that this particular trail was popular in part because potable water was provided at several rest stops along the way. She looked offended: “I do not drink tap water.”

As long ago as 2012 it was widely reported that 20% of the waste stream in national parks was disposable water bottles, leading to sales of bottled water banned in parks. Unfortunately, that ban was rescinded by the federal government in 2017, though parks still encouraged visitors to bring and refill their own bottles. No matter—the parks estimate that most of the waste they dump each year is still plastic bottles.

Who remembers drinking from the garden hose. Anyone? Did your fingernails turn black and fall off? A character in the book, True Grit, proclaimed that he once drank water from a muddy hoof print and was glad to get it. While I might not go that far, I have drunk from a lot of questionable sources, and I’m still here to tell the tale. You might want to try the tap.

Marjorie ‘Slim’ Woodruff is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She is a Grand Canyon educator.

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Such quiet is a rare gift. I haven’t been in Goodall’s Tanzanian rain forest, but recently shared Utah’s Capitol Reef National Park with a 25-year-old cousin visiting from urban America. Once in the canyons he kept pausing to say, “it’s so peaceful, so still.” He was astonished and renewed by that quiet.

This canyon country stillness is under attack. The assaults come in waves powered by motorized vehicles, engines revving.

First, the Trump administration proposes abandoning the 2023 Bureau of Land Management travel plan for Labyrinth Canyon. This 300,000-acre Utah wildland along the Green River just north of Canyonlands National Park is a gem—a fretwork of slickrock canyons along the river. Labyrinth preserves quiet for rafters, hikers, and bighorn sheep. No death-defying rapids here on this lazy, looping stretch easily paddled by families in canoes.

In a model compromise, the current Labyrinth plan maintains access to more than 800 miles of off-highway-vehicle (OHV) routes, closing only 317 miles to vehicles. In the surrounding Moab region, more than 4,000 miles of routes remain open. OHVs have plenty of room to roam.

But moderation is never enough for Utah politicians determined to motorize every inch of our public lands. They are pushing to reopen 141 miles of closed OHV routes at Labyrinth and hoping for even more. You can comment here before October 24.

In another backtrack on conservation in Utah, the administration has solicited bids for coal leasing on 48,000 acres of BLM land, much of it on and near the boundaries of national parks. The big views from Capitol Reef, Zion, and Bryce Canyon don’t stop at the park boundaries. Visitors, many from other countries, would be horrified by such industrialization of these world-class destinations. Rural Utah depends on these tourists to survive economically.

These are lands that even the conservative second Bush administration deemed unsuitable for mines. As Cory MacNulty, with the National Parks Conservation Association, said of the proposed leasing, “It’s absurd.”

Now the OHV battalions are threatening to overwhelm Capitol Reef National Park.

Utah Republican Senators Mike Lee and John Curtis introduced a bill on October 5 to open virtually every road in Capitol Reef to off-roaders. They claim that disabled Americans need this fundamental change to park policy, though even the park’s back roads are currently accessible by moderately high-clearance cars and trucks. There’s absolutely no need to permit noisy and destructive OHVs.

The senators’ second bill would potentially open other national parks to OHV use. Lee tried to pass nearly identical bills in 2021 and encountered a buzzsaw of resistance from national park advocates.

As retired Capitol Reef superintendent Sue Fritzke said, “OHVs would denigrate the very resources those sites have been set aside to protect, with increased dust and noise and impacts on wildlife, endangered species, and visitors.”

At each mile farther into remote corners of the park, off-highway vehicles become more problematic. Even though a majority of riders obey the rules, some will go off-road. They just will. Their vehicles are designed for this exact purpose. In Capitol Reef’s considerable backcountry—as in all underfunded national parks and monuments— staffing does not allow for constant patrolling to apprehend and ticket wrongdoers.

Capitol Reef is a place to slow down, not speed up. To revel in quiet, not reach for earplugs. To share the healing land with tenderness and restraint.

Lee disrespects national park values with these twin bills, and Curtis, who likes to tout his nature sensitivity on hikes with constituents, should know better. Their misguided proposals should be left to wither in committee and die. Those of us who love the restorative peace of national parks will just keep fighting such regressive bills.

In her last interview, Jane Goodall asked us to never give up: “Without hope, we fall into apathy and do nothing. If people don’t have hope, we’re doomed. Let’s fight to the very end.”

We will.

Stephen Trimble is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. He is a writer and photographer in Utah.

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A fast-food burger, in the original wrapper. I suppose they left it for the timid woodland creatures, except if fast food isn’t good for us, why would critters want it?  

Someone’s last remains. When a hiker pointed out a shiny object off the trail, I clambered over rocks to find a sealed urn of cremains, which is illegal to leave in a national park. Local tribes have also asked that visitors avoid doing this for religious considerations. 

I reported finding the urn to park rangers, and for the next month was identified as “the lady who found the body.”  

A can of corned beef. We found this on day three of a seven-day backpack. Those who abandoned it surely thought, “Oh, whoever finds this shall fall upon it with glee!”  Except we had enough food, thanks. Rather than carry a three-pound can of beef, though, we ate it, and yes, it was vile. 

Balloons. I risked life and limb one day clambering down a scree slope after what I thought was an abandoned backpack only to find deflated balloons. It is a lovely thought to release balloons to honor a friend. But creatures can get tangled in the strings or eat them to serious ill effect.

Mascara wand. I understand that many women cannot bear to be without their makeup, but on the trail? For one thing, you are all sweaty and dirty, or at least, I am. In the same vein, I have come across discarded bottles of cologne. Perhaps the owners finally realized that no perfume can cover up the smell of a long hike.  

Glow sticks. Tied to the trees. Not only are they plastic, they’re toxic to any animal who chews on them.

Double boiler filled with rice.  It might make sense to find this in a campsite, but four miles up the trail?  

Underwear. I do know about these situations. Someone has an unavoidable emergency and no TP so they use whatever is at, um, hand.  

Plastic tooth floss picks. Oral hygiene is important. However, most people do not leave their toothbrush behind, so why leave the silly things that only weigh one-tenth of an ounce?  

A five-pack of beer. I assume they drank one and left the rest for later, then did not find tepid beer palatable. But stashing items along the trail is problematic. We never know if you are really going to pick it up later, or if you just got tired of hauling it around. So best keep it with you.  

Laminated photographs. These are often left as a memorial. Does your loved one really want you to honor them by littering public lands with their portrait?  

One shoe. How does one hike out with one shoe? Although I did once meet a hiker wearing a single shoe and sock, one for each foot.  Another time, we found a jacket, then a shirt, then a pair of pants, then socks. I guess they kept the shoes. 

A hemostat used to compress a blood vessel. Was someone prepping for emergency surgery?

An empty backpack. How did they get their gear out?

A full backpack, including, among other things, a queen-sized bed sheet, a beach towel, canned food, and two hardback books. Rumor has it that the hapless hiker yelled, “I can’t do this!”, grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, and threw the pack off the trail. At this point, the hiker was five miles from the trailhead. 

The first rule of “leave no trace” is to plan ahead. Perhaps one should sit down with one’s supplies and ask: Do I really want to lug these books, this frying pan, that good bottle of wine?

If yes, more power to you, and keep on lugging! Just make sure you take it all back out with you.

Marjorie ‘Slim’ Woodruff is a contributor to Writers on

The Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She is a Grand Canyon educator.

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E-bikes can be class 1, 2, or 3. Class 1 provides assistance when the pedals are turned. Class 2 has a throttle that can propel the bike without pedaling. Both have a top speed of 20 mph. Class 3 bikes, also pedal-assisted, have a maximum speed of 28 mph. Only class 1 and 3 are allowed in national parks.

Friends with e-bikes tell me they like them because the pedal assistance means they can ride farther with less effort, even uphill. The bikes keep them active outdoors. I ride my bike for exercise. If I ride 12 miles on what I consider a real bike instead of 20 mph on an e-bike, we probably get the same workout. 

At the Grand Canyon, by the end of the day the rim road is littered with abandoned rental e-bikes that ran out of juice. Rather than pedal a heavy bike with a useless battery, riders simply leave them on the side of the road for the rental company to retrieve.

On a recent catered mountain bike ride, one of the participants rented an e-bike so she could keep up with her husband. But the guides had to spend many hours recharging the bike before they could leave. I wonder just how practical it would have been on a multi-day trip.

I recently read a plaintive screed from a mountain biker with a moral dilemma. He has a coterie of buddies who ride. When one of them had knee surgery, that person bought an e-bike so he would not hold everyone up. The group kept riding on trails where e-bikes are banned, figuring that with 10 real riders and one e-bike, they were OK.

Over the course of time, Mr. E-bike started leaving the others behind, so they felt obligated to buy their own e-bikes while still poaching the non-e-bike trails. Was it now immoral, he wondered, because they were all riding illegally? He was advised to let his conscience be his guide.

Horses erode trails worse than bikes do, and bikes wear a trail down more than hikers. If the rationale for riding an e-bike is that it allows one to go farther, that is more trail to be worn down.

E-bikes pollute less than gasoline motorcycles. However, a human-powered bike doesn’t pollute at all—unless one counts heavy breathing.

Outdoor enthusiasts are already vying for increased access to wild lands. ATV and 4X4 owners in Utah are incensed that the BLM plans to close certain roads to them and allow (gasp) mountain bikers to have sway.

On the other hand, mountain bikers are pressuring managers of designated wilderness to allow them access to these heretofore closed trails. E-bikers are upset that many trails are still open only to analog bikes.

It’s a slippery slope. When a local area was declared a wilderness, many residents complained that now they could no longer visit. “I have bad knees: I need my ATV.”  But if I cannot afford an ATV, then I need a more developed road to visit in my 4-wheel drive. If I cannot afford a 4X4, pave the road so I can drive it in my car.

In China, there is now a plan to build an escalator to the top of a mountain so that “everyone can enjoy the view.” Where is it written that everyone must be able to go everywhere by any means necessary?

A recent article in an outdoor magazine predicts that e-mountain bikes are the wave of the future, and bicycle vendors expect e-bikes to soon outsell analog bikes. If I stick with my must-pedal bike, I guess I will be considered a Luddite.

I do not suppose I really want e-bike riders to bow to me as they go by because I am doing all the pedaling myself. I would, however, appreciate it if they would not smirk as they pass. On the other hand, I guess I could refrain from yelling: “At least pretend to pedal!”

Marjorie ‘Slim’ Woodruff is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She is an educator at Grand Canyon and doesn’t mind picking fights.

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As for Trump’s pick for Interior Secretary, North Dakota Governor Doug Burgum: If Burgum tries to turn America’s public lands into an even bigger cash cow for the oil and gas industry, or tries to shrink America’s parks and national monuments, he’ll quickly discover he’s on the wrong side of history.

Public lands have strong bipartisan support in the West. The annual Conservation in the West Poll, last released by the Colorado College State of the Rockies Project in February 2024, found that nearly three-quarters of voters—including Republicans—want to protect clean water, air quality and wildlife habitats, while providing opportunities to visit and recreate on public lands.

That’s compared to just one-quarter of voters who prefer maximizing the use of public lands available for drilling and mining. According to the poll, which surveyed voters in Arizona, Colorado, Idaho, Montana, Nevada, New Mexico, Utah, and Wyoming—80 % of Westerners support the national goal of conserving 30 % of land and waters in America by the year 2030.

Bipartisan support for more conservation and balanced energy development has been a cornerstone of the poll’s findings since it began in 2011. Under the leadership of President Joe Biden and Interior Secretary Deb Haaland, the current administration has made progress over the past four years in bringing public land management in line with the preferences of Western voters. That includes better protecting the Grand Canyon, increasing accountability for oil and gas companies that operate on public land, and putting conservation—at last—on par with drilling and mining on public land.

The President-elect may find it hard to immediately block what Westerners want. After Trump took office in 2017 promising to transform public land management, his team was unprepared and used its power to benefit its own interests, ignoring the wishes of the American people.

Trump’s first Interior secretary, Ryan Zinke, misused his position to advance his dream of owning a microbrewery in Montana. Trump’s second Interior secretary, oil and gas industry lobbyist David Bernhardt, put his finger on the scale in the interest of a former client. Trump’s choice to run the Bureau of Land Management, William Perry Pendley, served illegally without being confirmed by Congress.

We worked hard to shed light on this corruption and defend public lands from Trump’s attacks. Still, Trump’s Interior department allowed oil and gas companies to lock up millions of acres for bargain basement prices.

In his second term, Donald Trump will attempt to shrink national monuments like Bears Ears in Utah and permit drilling and mining in inappropriate areas. The president-elect has already committed to undoing President Joe Biden’s energy and environmental policies.

Project 2025, the policy handbook written by former Trump

officials, clearly lays out a plan to gut the Interior Department and remove environmental safeguards that ensure the health of our public lands.

Project 2025 would give extractive industries nearly unfettered access to public lands, severely restrict the power of the Endangered Species Act, open millions of acres of Alaska wilderness to drilling, mining and logging and roll back protections for spectacular landscapes like Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante national monuments. It would also remove protections for iconic Western species such as gray wolves and grizzly bears.

What can we do about this assault? The law and public opinion are on our side. Public land protections are stronger today than ever, thanks in large part to the grassroots efforts of Tribes, local community leaders and conservation organizations.

We know much of what’s in Trump’s public lands playbook, and we will fight back. We’ll continue to shine a light on corruption within the Trump administration and hold it accountable.

Our partners will work in Congress to stop bad policies and projects from going forward. We are ready to take action in the courts and in the streets. And we’re not waiting until Inauguration Day to start.

Jennifer Rokala is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about Western issues. She is executive director of Center for Western Priorities, a nonpartisan public lands advocacy group.

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“Good Morning.” As an introvert I don’t understand why I have to say Good Morning to every member of a 30-person group. Nor does Good Afternoon roll of the tongue as nicely. Too many plosives and fricatives. Yesterday I got yelled at for not saying a cheery enough “Good Morning” to a passing hiker. I did not realize I was at a Downtown Abbey garden party.

Then there’s the consoling “You’re Almost There” hello. For one thing, I am almost never almost there when assured that I am. Volunteers at 10-Ks or marathons are warned to never, ever, tell someone they are almost there. Almost there is when you can see the parking lot.

An annoying question is “Everything OK”? Why are they asking this? Admittedly I have more gray hair than brown, but do I look so decrepit that they are concerned about my well being?  What would they do if I said, “It would really be 0K if you took my pack!”

“How you doing?” Do they really want to know that my trick hip is acting up, and my pack irritates that weird spot on my scapula? Probably not. 

“Good Luck.” Again, why? Is the only thing that will assure my success a whim of fate? I used to answer, “In the words of the immortal solo climber of Mount Everest, Reinhold Messner, ‘I do not believe in luck.’” That usually gets me a blank look.

“Where did you start and how long did it take you?” People usually ask me this while hiking in Grand Canyon. But why ask a random stranger how they did? I’m not racing. One woman asked me this at Bryce Canyon National Park because she and her boyfriend were attempting a loop. She thought they were on the wrong trail, but her boyfriend thought she was wrong. Turned out he was the one who was wrong, and he wasn’t happy about finding that out.

“Is it really harder hiking uphill?” Is this a trick question?

“Where are you going?” That seems a deep philosophical question to pose to a complete stranger. 

“How was it?” I guess I could answer on a scale of one to ten…

“Was it worth it?”  I’m always tempted to reply, “No, turn around now.” 

“Does this trail go anywhere?” “No,” I want to say, “it just kind of sits there.”

“If I hike down this trail, is there another way out?”  Not really: Walk in, walk out, is usually the case. 

Sometimes a joker will ask, “Are we there yet?”  “I sometimes answer, ‘Buddha would say, ‘We are always there.’ That gets me a laugh now and then.”

Several times I have been asked where the next shuttle bus stop is. If this is asked while on a trail in the Grand Canyon, the answer is “A mile back and a thousand feet up the way you came.” Poleaxed stare. “The bus doesn’t come down here?”  “No,” I want to say, “they tend to stick to the paved road.”

One young man told me, “I hope I can do this.”  I said, “It looks as though you are.”  “No, I mean when I am as old as you.” I guess I can take that as a compliment. Then there is the compliment: “I hope I’m as fit as you when I’m your age.” I want to reply: “I might be as fit as your age!”

A friend who let her hair go grey during COVID told me that she gets a lot more positive comments than she used to: “Young hikers used to mutter under their breath when I passed them. Now they tend to do a thumbs up and say, ‘Good for you.’”

I was hiking one day with a group of women who have hiked the West on trails for years, when a man stepped to the side to let us pass. He beamed at us as he said, “You ladies look radiant.”  Now that is the kind of trail talk I like.

Marjorie ‘Slim’ Woodruff is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She is an educator at the bottom of Grand Canyon. 

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But there’s a problem: The river carries a hefty 55% of the sediment entering the reservoir, and that mud is piling up.

The sediment-heavy river flows south into New Mexico before jogging into Utah, then it joins the Colorado River close to the Arizona border. The confluence is submerged under Lake Powell.

After decades of drought, the reservoir created by Glen Canyon Dam has dwindled to just a third full. Now, as the San Juan River flows toward Lake Powell, it rambles over a huge pancake of mud that’s 49 miles long, a mile wide in some places, and as much as 120 feet deep in the final reaches of the San Juan River.

Unique hydrology has contributed to this plug, A relatively wide canyon and multiple waterfalls slow down the river, allowing sediment to drop out. Though the San Juan is the muddiest tributary, all the Colorado’s tributaries drop a good deal of mud 100 miles or more upstream of Glen Canyon Dam.

It’s a Western phenomenon caused by damming swift rivers, said Jeff Geslin, a geologist at Fort Lewis College in Durango, Colorado. The result is that reservoirs in the West have become “temporary sediment storage facilities.”

If that mud could move through the Grand Canyon, like it did before the dam, biologists say that would help restore the canyon’s ecosystem, which depends on sediment-laden flushes in spring to scour riverbanks. Then, as the river slows, beaches form and vegetation returns.

Gary Gianniny, professor of Geosciences at Fort Lewis College in Durango, Colorado has been studying the San Juan River, along with river researchers who call their team, “The Returning Rapids Project.”

The group’s big worry is that without drastic action—draining Lake Powell to let the Colorado River run free—time may be running out for the languorous San Juan River.

Mike DeHoff, principal investigator of the Returning Rapids Project said the sediment layer on the San Juan has created new channels and new waterfalls. DeHoff added that no one knows whether the river’s sediment plug would dissipate even if Glen Canyon Dam were breached.

Researchers boating the San Juan River where it approaches Lake Powell say they’re forced to navigate an ever-moving pile of sediment that also involves portaging around rock waterfalls. When they finally arrive at Lake Powell, there’s dangerous liquefied clay and sand to navigate.

“I’ve seen people sink to their chests in the mud, saved only by their flotation devices and nearby boaters,” said DeHoff of Moab, Utah.

“We’ll need a drone to study that area,” added Gianniny.

Researchers with the Returning Rapids Project talk a lot about what to call these giant slabs of calving sediment. DeHoff suggests “mud bergs.”  

Semi-solid mud walls along the river have already been dubbed “the Dominy Formation,” named after the avid federal dam-builder Floyd Dominy.

“Technically, Gianniny said, the giant mud plug is a “mass of uncompacted mud and sand that causes alluvial fanning.” And falling slabs of sediment, those “mud bergs,” act as semi-permanent river features.

BLM River Ranger Chad Niehaus uses a packraft to regularly visit what researchers are calling the Lowest San Juan. He floats over 30-plus miles of the muddy river, finishing with a four-mile backpack out to a four-wheel drive vehicle 48 miles from Page, Arizona as the crow flies.

Niehaus marvels at the deserted region. “Sediment is moving around, and you must be vigilant in a different way than you do on a ‘normal’ river.”

Drought, climate change, “whatever you call it, the Lowest San Juan has re-emerged,” Niehaus said about wildlife in the once-submerged canyon. “I’ve seen river otters, mountain lions, coyotes—even pelicans—but the most astounding aspect is how quickly nature is coming back.” In places, cottonwood trees are 20 feet high, he said.

“When I was a teenager there were places on maps that were considered forever gone,” he said, pointing to sections on the map entitled, “Glen Canyon National Recreation Area.”

Now, he said, “some forever-gone places are revealed.” He mentions Cathedral in the Desert, a wondrous site on the nearby Escalante River. Enough water has receded to make it visible, though some of this sacred place for Indigenous people is buried under 30-plus feet of sediment.

Meanwhile, the muddy end of the San Juan River is wild again: “I rarely see a footprint.”

Dave Marston is the publisher of the independent nonprofit, Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. He lives in Durango, Colorado.

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Writers on the Range has a simple two-part mission. One of its aims is to engage Westerners in thinking and talking to each other about issues important to the region. The other aim is to entice readers to look forward to these fact-based opinions, with the hope that they’ll then want to keep their local journalism outlet alive and flourishing.

This year, the focus of writers ran the gamut from A to W. Abortion bans, wrote Idaho-based Crista Worthy, caused women’s health to suffer severely, while wolves, wrote Story Warren, were unfairly blamed for killing livestock in Colorado.

Several columns covered the depleted Colorado River, while longtime journalist Rocky Barker wrote that at last, four Klamath River dams would be demolished in the Northwest to help struggling salmon populations.

Greg McNamee made an excellent case for paying wildland firefighters what they deserved for their hazardous work, and Pepper Trail, the renowned Oregon biologist, wrote several opinions, including one about his own efforts to save wildlife from fatal encounters with vehicles.

No matter what Marjorie “Slim” Woodruff writes from her perch at the bottom of the Grand Canyon—insulting hikers for their lack of trail etiquette, mocking visitors for their Instagram obsessions— readers love how she slings her stings. Her pieces routinely run in 50 or more outlets.

From the Yellowstone area, Molly Absolon was also a popular writer, telling about backcountry heroes—mostly volunteers—who extricate hikers, climbers and drivers of snow machines from dangerous situations they’d gotten themselves into.

In Colorado, Erica Rosenberg detailed how federal land exchanges almost always serve the wealthy, and in Alaska, Tim Lydon wrote about his recreationally oriented town of Girdwood, so out of whack economically that teachers can’t find local housing.

Ernie Atencio celebrated the work of two Westerners who died recently, the New Mexico rancher Sid Goodloe, who transformed ranching by promoting short-duration, rotational grazing, and Dave Foreman, founder of EarthFirst! who worked to save old-growth forests, wilderness and migration corridors for big game.

The most-read award goes to Writers on the Range publisher Dave Marston, whose piece about the looming energy gap appeared in 67 publications. It also prompted an invitation from Amory Lovins, the guru of energy efficiency, for Marston to visit his Rocky Mountain Institute and learn why his column was so wrong about small, modular nuclear power being an option. Marston accepted that invitation, and this January his opinion will reveal whether he’s seen the light, so to speak.

Writers on the Range fields diverse reactions on its website, and some, to put it mildly, get personal. The column by Dana Johnson headlined “Mountains don’t need hardware,” enraged some technical climbers. The director of The Access Fund, which wants climbers to be able to put bolts into mountains in wilderness, vilified Marston, even accusing him of securing his position through “nepotism.”

Marston, who wrote eight opinions this year, didn’t bother to point out that not that many people choose to work for free, no matter what their last name.

There also emerged a healthy conversation about whether too many out-of-area hunters crowded public land. Andrew Carpenter’s opinion prompted rancher Lesli Allison to reply that 80 percent of scarce winter habitat for big game is provided by ranchers, and that cutting hunting tags for outsiders threatened the ability of ranchers to make a living.

Whatever retired land-use professor Rick Knight writes about—monster mansions polluting views or how much fun it can be to work like a dog restoring neglected land—readers love his message. They can tell he knows and cares about protecting the region’s open lands. But then, every opinion writer this year seemed to share his passion for the fascinating and often contentious West.

Finally, opinions can have impact if they’re sent out at the right time. “Outrage in Wyoming,” by Savannah Rose, urged the state not to auction off 640 acres within Grand Teton National Park. Her piece helped raise the number of angry objectors to 9,000, with 7,000 comments coming in the last week. The pressure worked: Wyoming officials postponed a decision on an auction until sometime in 2024.

Betsy Marston is the editor of Writers on the Range, an independent opinion service that seeks to spur lively conversation about the West. Want to comment, get on our newsletter list, or write a column? Go to writersontherange.org.

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Even when I said, “Ahem, excuse me,” I was unceremoniously nudged out of the way — not on the cliff side, but still.

It shouldn’t need mentioning, but while walking on a rocky trail where one may fall to one’s death, it is best not to be watching one’s phone. And in case you were wondering, uphill has the right of way.

I am often told that people coming downhill should have the right of way because they might lose control and can’t easily stop. Well, on a shared trail, one should not be losing control, and certainly not on a trail where a fall could lead to dying, as above. 

Uphill has the right of way because it is harder to stop and restart while climbing. Yes, some hikers want to stop and rest and that is their prerogative, but if I have my uphill mojo going, I don’t want to stop.

Downhill hikers also have a much wider field of vision.  Climbing up, I usually see only my feet, particularly if I’m wearing a sunhat. Since most injuries occur on the way down a trail, it might behoove one to slow down and pay attention in any case.

Nor does this apply only to hikers. On a four-wheel drive road, the driver coming down must pull over for the driver coming up. 

In mountain biking, uphill has the right of way as well, partly because if the uphill rider has to stop, they will likely be walking up the rest of the hill.

Standing at the top of a steep hill and yelling “Clear!” before bombing down is not sufficient. Perhaps that is why more and more trails around Arizona have signs posted warning riders that if they cannot comply with the rules, the routes will be closed to bikes. 

Mountain bikes are supposed to yield to hikers, but since I know how hard it is to stop and start on a bike, I usually step out of the way anyway. 

Yet all trail users must yield to horses. I have met horses that freak out upon seeing a piece of blowing paper, so I cannot imagine how they would react to a fast-moving bike.

Regarding those annoying downhill hikers and runners who say they “need” the right of way, I have not done the study, but I would bet they never yield no matter which direction they are heading.  They have important things to do and places to go, and maybe a phone to check.

As absorbing as it is to walk hand-in-hand with your sweetie, or arms linked with your BFF, you probably would not force people off the sidewalk into traffic just to keep your bestie right there. So why, on a trail, would you force other hikers to give way?

Faster hikers overtaking another party should politely make their presence known. A curt “on your left” as you elbow them out of the way does not suffice. Neither does stepping on their heels until they finally acknowledge you. 

Speaking for myself, I often fall into a reverie while hiking, and I do not always notice someone dogging my footsteps. So please say something.

I’ve been startled more than once by a runner brushing against me as they sped past, sometimes on a trail narrow enough that had I stepped (or tripped!) to the side, I would have knocked the runner off the cliff. 

People are allowed to periodically pause on their treks. I was berated recently because I was standing with my pack facing the trail. I was informed hotly by an approaching runner that he had to slow down to pass me, and next time would I please move out of the way? I did not realize I was upsetting his Best Time Ever. 

More and more it seems, we needs must share our wilderness with all sorts of users.

Yes, we all get hot and sweaty and cold and tired and exhausted and hungry and thirsty, but we can still be polite. To paraphrase the immortal Robert A. Heinlein, politeness is what characterizes a civilization.  

Marjorie “Slim” Woodruff is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She is an educator in the Grand Canyon.

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Turns out that it was taken on an off-trail route at the end of a potholed dirt road on the Navajo Nation, and required a permit to even enter the area. Also, I bet she did not climb to that precarious perch on that cliff wearing those fancy shoes.

A local guide lamented that the area would now be getting a slew of “Instagram” tourists. These people would be seeking to replicate the pose with themselves perched on the very same edge, probably wearing those same shoes.

This kind of thing has led to some decrying the unsavory habits of Instagram influencers. These are the folks who trample fields of wildflowers in order to get a shot of themselves displaying a sponsored product. Or who photograph their colorful paintings on wilderness rock faces. 

Instagram photos taken on private land have had owners locking their gates because of the hordes of people wandering through looking for the exact location of that idealized post. A perfect shot, however, does not show the queue of people waiting impatiently for their turn at glory.

Even blatant scofflaws get into the act. Some men filmed themselves swimming illegally with endangered pupfish in Nevada —and then they posted the video. Do they truly believe that only iconoclastic souls who disagree with “petty” federal regulations will view said video? Or that park rangers and police don’t own smartphones? Whatever they were thinking, it did make law enforcement easier.

What has happened to old-fashioned spontaneity? Imitation is a form of flattery, but is the only picture worth having one that’s copied from someone else’s? There’s even a website which apparently allows one to paste family pictures into vacation spots without bothering to visit them. A great time saver.

One day while riding my bike, I passed a couple setting up for their flawless picture. When I came back an hour later, they were still working on getting the hair, clothing and attitude just right. The scenery was an afterthought.

People are also falling into copycat mode because apparently just standing on a rim isn’t sexy enough . One has to jump or pretend to fall, which unfortunately may segue into the real thing. Search and Rescue groups decry the glut of visitors who just want the “perfect” picture. There is even a word for them: Killfies.

I’m reminded of the old “mom” adage where wayward children are asked: “if all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you?”

Then I discovered an entire genre of Instagram posts dedicated to ladies who hike and climb in high heels. I assumed that they hiked in real shoes and then changed for the shot, but no, some of them climb mountains in heels. What could possibly go wrong?  

Back in the day, we visited the backcountry to get away from other people. Now we invite them digitally to follow and give us “likes.” If a person climbs a mountain and does not post it online, did the hike really happen?

Sometimes an experience doesn’t even need to exist in reality. One summer I worked as an “educational liaison” at a local business that featured a diorama of the Grand Canyon in their courtyard. Busloads of tourists would line up to get their picture in front of… that picture of the canyon. I wanted to yell, “The real thing is only seven miles away!”

My son has encouraged me to become an influencer. He tells me there are not a lot of women my age who do the things I do. I guess that is a compliment. But if I did, my influence would be unfiltered. No makeup, just hiking boots, clothes made for roughing it and hair wild as an old West hooraw.

Perhaps I could start a trend: Down-and-dirty influencing. Sweaty, beyond tired, what it really looks like to have hiked up to that cliff.

Think it would catch on?

Marjorie “Slim” Woodruff is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She is an outdoor educator in Arizona.

Paragraph 6 has been changed: the young men did not post a YouTube video of themselves.

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