OUT Into the Wilds

Heartsongs

2009-11-02T14:40:00.000-08:00

When this past spring finally arrived in Washington, DC, I reluctantly opened the window near my bed, in my small, studio apartment in Dupont Circle, enjoying the fresh air but a bit irritated by sirens and horns and garbage trucks and helicopters. The view from my place is a concrete alley with buildings, dumpsters and a chain-link fence with barbed-wire on top. But there’s a young sugar maple growing amidst it all, the only “nature” I can see from my studio. The other morning, a crow landed in the budding tree and started cawing away, loud and proud, reminding me of other crows and their cousins, the ravens, back home in Montana; a comforting song indeed. I never thought a small, lonely little tree and a boisterous, scruffy black bird could take on such significance in my life. But here, in the midst of concrete and people, even a touch of wildness stands out, like finding an old hunting knife in the middle of the wilderness.

Last fall, while bulls were bugling in the Bitterroots, I packed up and moved to the nation’s capital to start a new job and get my head on straight. Now, with a half-year of hindsight, I know it was a futile attempt to escape troubles; such things travel with you as long as your head is still attached. Fortunately, that same brain-housing-group (as we called it in the Marines) also carry’s memories of elk country where I frequently find solace as an antidote to the insanity of city life. After a frustrating, maddening day of busy sidewalks and traffic and horns and sirens and jets and helicopters (DC sometimes still seems like a military zone in post-9/11 days) and rudeness and pretentiousness and arrogance (expected in a city laden with smart, ambitious people vying for political influence and power), I return to my apartment, lay in bed, close my eyes and drift off to the places and adventures I cherish most.

There’s a lifetime full, and then some, that gently swirl through my head like a windy September snow in the high country. The maple and crow trigger such memories; sometimes it’s other various sights, sounds and tastes. Like the squealing breaks of a bus that sound (to me) a bit like the bugling of a bull, or walking by the wolf statutes in front of Defenders of Wildlife headquarters on 17th Street across from the wildlife photos hanging from the widows of the National Geographic building, or the pungent odor of white pine scattered through the city, or the frequent dinner invites from my friend in Mt. Pleasant to enjoy elk steaks cut from the bull he killed in Idaho last fall, or a walk to Roosevelt Island on the Potomac where a large monument of Theodore himself helps return me to my hunting and conservation roots.

It all makes me think of an elk calf I met last spring – wondering if she (or he?) is still alive, or perhaps succumbed to cold and snow, tooth or claw, virus or disease or bow or rifle. Perhaps, even as I write, some fortunate hunter is savoring a tender piece of backstrap or rump roast carved from its bones. Such is life in the wilds – the last remnants of the real world, as I like to think of it – where nature, life and death, serenity and violence, splendor and repugnance (judgments, I suppose, from my homocentric view of things) continue on as always.
I met the calf serendipitously, on an unusually warm May day, back in the Selway Bitterroot Wilderness in the Idaho backcountry, a half day’s hike from the Montana border. Retreating down from deep, post-holing snow still lingering in the high country, breaking out of a maddening thicket of alder into a dark copse of massive Doug fir, I pretty near tripped over the calf – who lay stiff, silent and scentless in a sunny spot near a large, rotting log. The newborn would have been easy to miss; donning spotted tan, chocolate and cream camouflage -- a level of concealment I could only hopelessly imagine matching back in my stealthful Marine Corps days. There were no cows in site, though I sensed I was being watched, and no sign of other life. Just silence. So I lay next to the calf, a few feet away and, well, just said “hello.” I was met with big black eyes, staring back at me with what seemed more curiosity than fear, which makes sense, since aside from what instinctive notions this new life might be born with there was unlikely any experience to judge what might be harmful, dangerous or not. I have no doubt I was the first human this elk had ever seen. Which brought concerns to mind: Could I be teaching this young elk that we humans are harmless? I even envisioned me stalking elk come fall, bow in hand, only to have a yearling run over, lay down, and expect me to say “hello.”
Lots of conflicting thoughts raced through my mind: I wondered what it would be like to pet him (though I didn’t); I wondered how good it would be to eat him (though I didn’t), and I wondered how his (or her?) life would turn out (I’ll never know). I didn’t linger long. I got up, said “goodbye,” and wished him good luck. “Beware of wolves, and lions, and bears . . . and hunters like me.”

Life’s laden with such seemingly contradictory notions and emotions of joy, violence, love and turmoil. I’ve been coping with a heap of such things myself over the past several years – the death of my father; unexpected twists and turns; confusing matters of the heart; full-blown mid-life crisis. Sometimes, I sought futile, misguided solace in alcohol and other various vices. On my better days, I would head for elk country, year round, by foot, skis or snowshoes, hunting or seeking sheds or just wandering and looking. Well, at least I did during the 23 years I lived in Montana, and now I know I grew to take it all for granted, now that it’s so far away, and I feel like I’ve lost a part of my heart – similar to the feeling I get being on the opposite side of the nation from my child.
With 48 years behind me, I should know better than an elk calf. That young, inexperienced life has no choice but to face up to challenges, do the best she (or he) can do, face life and go on. But I’ve spent far too much time the past few years wallowing in self-pity, avoiding and evading life and responsibilities, drifting from my roots, spending far more time in the 14 bars I could stumble home from than any of the surrounding wild country I used to roam on a regular basis. I had even stopped hunting elk – something that used to passionately consume my life, like an athlete obsessed with triathlons might do; preparing, anticipating, training, visualizing, pursuing, killing, boning out and packing meat, cutting and wrapping and eating and starting again for the next fall. It was the very core of my identity. So friends were surprised, even concerned, when I fell into depression and laid down my bow. For a few years after, I still headed out, rifle in hand, to put meat on the table. But it became routine, and felt more like something I should do because I was supposed to, because that was me. I questioned my motives, and wondered if I hunted for the right reasons, or merely to prove I was a tough, macho guy who could regularly find and kill big bulls. A few times – watching bulls die slow deaths with my arrow sticking from their sides – I was overcome with guilt and sorrow. So I stopped.

I envy that calf I met; no doubt approaching life with simplicity – not overanalyzing and complicating and torturing itself with a crazy human mind. But the longer I live far from the mountains of Montana the more clear things become, and the more I relive the moments that made life so good, so worth living. Like the day I met that elk calf. And a plethora of other memories that run through my brain like a broken record, over and over, bringing me back home. These are a few of my top “hits:”

The crisp fall day in a remote part of the Selway Bitterroot Wilderness bushwhacking with my pack on when my chocolate lab, several yards ahead of me, abruptly stopped, hair up, and let out a nervous “woof.” With the breeze in our face I could smell elk, so I hurried to her side to see what she saw, and there, less than 50 yards ahead, stood a stocky white wolf who, when seeing me, sped off in a blur. Another 100 yards ahead we found two dead calves, torn open and blood still steaming, lots of wolf tracks in the surrounding mud. Apparently, we disrupted a feast. Another time, not far from that very spot (as the raven flies) I secured my own winter feast – the largest bull I ever killed (a hefty 6x7) after bugling, and grunting and cow-calling and chasing and retreating and moving back in from dawn till dusk until it finally all came together and I sent an arrow through both lungs. It took me four arduous days boning and packing meat out – something I am not so sure I could or would even want to do today. A few drainages over, I once heard a strange grunt below me, on a steep slope of dark spruce, while pursuing a vocal bull who entertained me with songs most the day but never let me see him. So I reluctantly abandoned his tempting taunts to check out the “grunt.” It turns out the sound came from a black bear gorging himself on elk. I spent an hour or so crawling close, hid behind a hefty spruce, notched an arrow, leaned over and shot him right through the heart. The boar was nearly 7-foot long and from the worn-out teeth I have a hunch he was near the end of his days regardless. The roasts were delicious. There’s a nameless lake not far from there, far from any trails, where it’s easy to make a meal out of fat, naïve cutthroats. I used to lay my sleeping bag out close to the shore, under a thick alpine fir, between days of chasing bulls, and sleep a deep, sound sleep on soft needles like I have never experienced on the best of modern mattresses. One night, I awoke under a full moon and saw a mountain lion, several yards away, looking at me, then quickly slip away like a dream. Then I barely heard the distinct squeal of a bull far, far in the distance. One winter, feeling overly ambitious, I loaded my pack, strapped on skis and spent 10-days making my way through the Bitterroots from the Montana side to Elk City Idaho. Down along the Selway River – one of the only wild, protected winter ranges surrounded still by wilderness – I saw hundreds of elk, struggling through a brutal winter, and several carcasses from the ones who didn’t make it, and I came upon fresh, bloody moose tracks in the snow alongside small lion tracks, laying out a tale of a botched, messy attempt at a kill. I found the moose, still alive, standing and stumbling in an icy creek with her right flank torn up. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, and left her alone, hoping the cat would return and finish it off quick. Such is life in the wilds, where we can all fall prey to the everyday drama of life and death. I’ve had a few close encounters with grizzlies (which always bring to mind the words of William Kittredge: “We need grizzlies around if, for nothing else, they teach us a little humility”), have come close to drowning in foolish efforts to cross tumultuous creeks filled with spring snowmelt, fell off a cliff once and got caught in an avalanche. Then there’s the days of refreshing naps on sunny hillsides; skinny dipping in clean, cold creeks and lakes or building a fire on a cold November day while boning out an elk, throwing some ribs on the fire, and gnawing on fresh meat while tossing scraps to the friendly grey jays (camp robbers) who have a knack for showing up at kill sites often before I do. Several years ago I loaded a pack and spent eight weeks hiking mostly off trail from Missoula, Montana to Waterton, Alberta, and only crossed three roads; I am not sure I have ever felt so good, so happy, so alive. But the adventure, all the adventures, all the sights, sounds, smells and feel of it all are there, still there, in the grey matter between the ears, helping me through day by day; elk and mountain goats and pine martens and bears and lions and wolves and hawks and eagles and whitebark pine and lodgepole and menziesia brush and alder (that damn menziesia brush and alder!) and wild rivers and trout and fire and flood and snow and rain and sunshine and bugling, bugling, bugling, always the bugling going through my head like a song that won’t go away.

And that elk calf. It’s been almost a year now, and I still frequently think of her (or him?) often. Though my scientific side resists anthropomorphic thoughts, I can’t help but wonder: does that calf ever think of me? If that young elk survived the year there’s no doubt some harsh and valuable lessons have been learned. Such is life. Here’s something I’ve learned from elk country: westerns forests evolved with and are well-adapted to wildfire; they often seem devastating at the time but forests are healthier for it in the long-term. Things always green up. Such is life.
I recently listened to Weezer’s Heartsongs, in which vocalist and songwriter Rivers Cuomo sings of all the music that influenced his life and career --- the works of Gordon Lightfoot and Cat Stevens and Eddie Rabbit and Jon Lennon and Bruce Springsteen and Iron Maiden and Judas Priest and Michael Jackson and Nirvana.

These are my heartsongs
They never feel wrong
And when I wake, for goodness sakes
These are the songs I keep singin’

And so it is with memories of elk and elk country and wild, remote places; they never feel wrong, and so I keep singin’, until I return. So now I find myself thinking again of fall, and planning my move back home. I want to dust off my bow, clean my rifle, get back in shape, and seek winter meat. Of course, as all us hunters know, it’s more than roasts, steaks and burgers – it’s the constant quest, the total, complete emersion into the predator-prey world of life in wilds that I’ve only felt while hunting. It truly is me, it’s when I feel most alive, it’s a critical part of my very core. Perhaps next fall I will meet that calf again, now full grown, and with a tinge of sadness, but a smile on my face, I would not mind carrying him from woods to freezer. I am, after all, a hunter.

2009-01-15T13:01:00.000-08:00

Seeking Gay Date: Just Don't Tell Anyone
By David Stalling

Being new to DC (having moved to Dupont from the rural Rockies), and excited to experience what it might be like to live in a "gayborhood" of sorts, I am a bit surprised by how many gay guys in this town seem ashamed, afraid and so deeply closeted. Not that I can't relate; I spent much of my life in various stages of denial, suppression and hiding. Perhaps us "came-out-late-in-life" sort of guys can be as equally sanctimonious and irritating as ex-smokers and born-agains. On the other hand, the times they are a changing, and homosexuality is hardly shocking and unacceptable to most people nowadays. Much of the internalized homophobia I've seen here seems related to the very nature of our Capital City, where many people appear overly-obsessed and concerned with image and connection to power—hence, have fears and insecurities (real and perceived) about getting shoved off the hetero-dominated achievement ladder. Here's a recent example:

I got lucky, and received two tickets to Obama's inaugural address from one of my Senators, Jon Tester of Montana (they were distributed equitably to constituents who requested them). I attempted to turn my good fortune into more luck, and placed the following ad in the "Men Seeking Men" section of Craigslist:

Looking for Date to Inauguration (I have two tickets)

My senator confirmed today that I will be receiving two tickets to Obama's inauguration. I would love to find a date for this historic event. I am fit, active, energetic, smart, passionate, fun, down-to-earth, funny and an all-round good guy. My interests are many and diverse, and include: hiking, backpacking, mountain biking, snowboarding, reading, writing, cooking, dining out, watching movies, dancing, exploring the city and good conversation. I tend to like younger, or at least youthful, intelligent, energetic, interesting, skinny/lean guys who look at the world differently, and are totally out and single. I would want to meet a few times, to see if we hit it off, before the inauguration. I'm not so bad in bed if it comes to that! Send pics and stats if interested.

I included a few pictures, one a simple mug shot and the other one of me in board shorts with my chocolate lab along the Blackfoot River in Montana—no more revealing, say, then photos of Obama's recent shirtless jaunt along an Hawaiian beach (though I am not as hot as our president-elect.) I was flooded with responses—most from the usual assortment of "I want to fuck your hole"-"rim your ass"-"tie you up" whack-jobs that were immediately deleted. But a handful was from seemingly smart, interesting, good-looking guys. Unfortunately, most of them said they were closeted, or married, or in "committed" relationships with boyfriends who would be out of town, and required total "discretion" and "secrecy." Several wanted assurances I didn't "act" or "look" gay so nobody would know they were on a gay date. (If a guy is "straight-acting," wouldn't he be on the "Men Seeking Women" thread?) And so I (sometimes reluctantly) deleted them too. But perhaps the strangest, most irritating response came from an anonymous guy who wrote:

"man, you better pull this ad before it ends up in the press. you might get more coverage than you think or than you want -- including for your senator/senator's staffer who got the tix for you....that will burn that relationship."

I wrote him back, curious, as to what he thought seemed so newsworthy, scandalous or remotely, potentially embarrassing to a senator in regards to my ad? What would the headlines read? "Gay Man Trying to Find Date to Inauguration!" I envisioned myself in a 60 Minutes interview with Lesley Stahl leaning forward, a somber look on her face, asking, "So, Mr. Stalling, you planned to take a man to the inaugural address, and potentially have sexual relations with him?" I would fidget around a bit, hesitate, and finally reply, "Uh, um, err, ah, yeah, I guess, if I found the right guy." Of course, as silly and improbable as it is, I would welcome the coverage: it would merely widen my search for a date.

And how would Senator Jon Tester reply? Well, considering he has an openly, out gay son (who he loves, accepts and is proud of, as any good dad should) and is a pretty fair and reasonable guy, I would like to think (and quite certain) he would say something along the lines of, "He received two tickets from my office, who he takes with him is his own damn business."

Okay, so perhaps the "not so bad in bed" comment could perceived as a tad bit inappropriate, if not narcissistic. But I can provide references. And it seems most every magazine I see on the Newsstand nowadays touts an article or two about how to improve one's sex life. I recently read one that recommended having more and better sex as one of the top ten ways to live a healthier, happier life—seems worthy of a New Year's resolution to me! I hope Sen. Tester and his wife—and Obama and Michelle, for that matter—aren't bad in bed and can mutually satisfy each other. Are we such a puritanical society that we should only read about such things but not talk about it? (I guess that's why I prefer Dr. Ruth over Dr. Laura.)

Of course, Mr. Anonymous likely would not have responded as he did if I was a heterosexual seeking a female date. Yet I assume, since he was searching through and reading ads on the "Man Seeking Man" section, that he is not so straight. So why would he be so judgmental of my ad? I didn't get to find out. His reply to my questions: "Do not email me again, I have put you on my spam filter." So the search goes on.

By the way: any cute, smart, openly out and single guys looking for a date? I promise it won't embarrass our senators!

Virginia is for Lovers (Unless you're Gay and Drive too Fast)

2008-12-22T19:30:00.000-08:00

By David Stalling

I can't be absolutely sure my homosexuality had anything to do with me being jailed overnight in Virginia, humiliated, denied basic rights and roughed up by the cops; although they repeatedly called me "faggot," and even preached some good-old-fashioned Christianity to help set me straight. Officially, I was detained for "reckless driving." A gay guy driving too fast.

Both Lambda Legal and the American Civil Liberties Union reviewed my complaints, and determined there was "insufficient evidence to substantiate a strong case" against the police or county—not enough witnesses, no photos, that sort of thing. In other words: the cops didn't beat me up in front of others, and didn't film it. It's just my word against theirs. And apparently, in Virginia, citizens show a great deal of respect and admiration for authority; I don't blame them—you might get the shit kicked out of you otherwise. So I have no civil case; just fond memories and my side of the story:

On September 4, 2008, at 2:24 pm, I was pulled over by a Virginia County Sheriff for speeding while driving a rental car on Route 657 (.2 miles east of route 267) on my way from Washington DC to Dulles international airport. I had been in DC a few days interviewing for a job with a nonprofit gay rights organization. I was driving 85 in a 55 mph zone, and the cop informed me that in Virginia that is deemed "reckless driving." He was stern, serious, stoic and treated me as if I had just robbed the collection plate at a Baptist Church. And this is speculative on my part: but he seemed to pay extra attention to, and show particular disgust by, a small stack of circumstantial evidence on the passenger seat: a copy of a "Queer Guide to DC," several gay rights magazines, and information regarding efforts to repeal the military's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy.

The policeman informed me that I had to sign a citation promising to appear in a Fairfax County Court regarding the charges. This confused me, because back home, in Montana, you have the option of pleading guilty and paying the fine on the spot, or mailing the fine in before the scheduled court appearance. I informed the police officer that I lived in Montana, and could not afford to come back to court, and asked for clarification and inquired as to how I could plead guilty and mail the fine in. He became angry, impatient and told me to just sign it. I told him I was confused and wanted an explanation, and again asked if there were other options. He told me if I did not sign it he could arrest me and put me in jail. Still confused, suspicious, and now upset, I asked, "You can arrest me because I can't afford to come back to Virginia?" I said I wanted to make a quick phone call to a friend of mine (who is a lawyer in Montana) to clarify what he was telling me. I reached for my cell phone lying next to the gay literature. He became very aggressive and told me to get out of the car. He shoved me against the car, handcuffed me extra tight, and informed me I was under arrest. Still confused, I asked why. Because I refused to sign the promise to appear in court, he said. Finally understanding the severity of the situation, I told him I did not refuse, but wanted clarification, but would now, of course, consider signing it. His response: It's too late for that, faggot." And so it was. I was hauled off to the Fairfax County Adult Detention Center and assigned inmate number 20051851773. I missed my flight home to Montana.

They took an unflattering mug shot (not one I would put on ManHunt), fingerprints, had me empty pockets and turn everything over, then placed me in a small, 15-by-20-foot or so concrete holding cell with approximately 20 other inmates. They told me that I would have to spend the night and appear before a judge in the morning. There were two rows of chairs in the room and a TV mounted in the corner (playing cheesy reality shows all night, including COPS), and a small bathroom (a stainless steel toilet with a drinking fountain built into the top). The only place to sleep was to find space among the other inmates on the floor.

I was told I could make four calls from a phone on the wall, but only collect calls. I tried calling several people, including a lawyer, but received answer machines, which cannot accept collect calls. I finally got hold of my brother, Tim, who is a policeman in Fairfield, Connecticut, and he decided to drive from Connecticut to Virginia that night to see what he could do. He did not arrive until the next morning. During the night, I was harassed by several cops and repeatedly called a "faggot." I was laughed at and denied all requests for a reasonable, realistic chance to call a lawyer, or even get a phone book so I could look up phone numbers for local lawyers. I would occasionally curl up on the floor, using my arm as a pillow, and begin to doze off. But every hour or so, up to six cops would swing open the iron bars, rush into the holding cell and yell for everyone to "get on your feet" so they could take attendance, demanding we all speak to them in a "yes sir, no sir" manner, reminiscence of my days in Marine Corps boot camp.

At about 2 am, they brought in a young man—25 or so, and cute--who appeared drunk. They treated him pretty roughly. He asked a question, and one of the officers screamed, "You will address me as Sergeant. You are in my jail and you will treat me with respect." To which the young man replied: "Why don't you show me some respect?" Several officers grabbed him, put him in an arm lock, and hauled him away. An hour or so later, they brought him back, threw him back into the cell, and he was wearing a few new bumps and bruises on his face and arms.

I was angry, scared, and asked what was going on. "How can you treat people this way?" I asked. "What country is this?" One cop laughed and told me to "shut up faggot." I replied: "You can't treat people this way." I then found out the hard way that, indeed, they can. Several cops (about four, I think) grabbed me, put me in a painful arm lock, and took me to a very small, concrete holding pen. Again, I was called a "faggot" several times and heard one officer say "We need to teach this faggot a lesson." They pushed me down on my knees, pushed my face into the corner, kneed me and kept me in an arm lock. One of them screamed, "You will lay here with your face against the floor until we tell you to move, do you understand?" I replied: "I would like to call a lawyer." They slammed my face a bit harder into the concrete and yelled, "You will answer 'yes sir,' do you understand?" Again, I requested a lawyer, and again they slammed my face into the wall. This occurred several times, and I was again repeatedly called a "faggot." I finally told them they could break every bone in my body if they wanted, and it would only make my case better when I finally did get a lawyer. They backed off.

I was left in the solitary confinement cell, and felt pretty sick. I spit up some blood, was bleeding from my nose, and my eyes and nose were in pain. Twice I requested medical treatment and was laughed at, and again called a faggot. (They seem to love the word.) One cop threw a rag into my cell and told me to clean up my mess. I refused, and again requested medical attention and was again denied. One cop with sympathetic-leanings told me to "cooperate" and they would treat me better, and said they had to separate me from the others and do what they did because I might otherwise "incite a riot." I remained in solitary confinement the rest of the night, with occasional visits by cops who would smile, laugh, and continue their incontrollable urges to repeatedly use the word "faggot."

At about 8 am, September 5, I was handcuffed and led to a room to speak to a judge, via TV screen, not in person. It was like watching Judge Judy while also being in her show all at the same time. A cop told her that I was arrested for reckless driving, lived out of state, and that I had refused to sign the paperwork promising to return to Virginia to appear in court. I awaited my chance to speak, but it never came. "Well, in that case, I set your bail at $5, 000," she said. That was that, no chance to respond, and I was rushed out of there and taken back to the main holding cell, with the others, apparently no longer a potential inciter of riots. A cop told me I could use the phone on the wall—another collect call—to arrange bail. But the phone did not work. I mentioned it to one of the cops, and he told me to try again. I did. There was no dial tone. I informed the cop again. He seemed agitated, but entered the cell to check the phone. He told me that it wasn't working, but said he would make arrangements to find me another phone to use. Then he left. I waited for more than an hour, when another cop arrived and told me and several others to follow him. I assumed I was going to finally get to use a phone so I could arrange to pay bail and be free. I was wrong.

Instead, I and the others were led to another part of the building and told to wait in line, where a cop was sitting at a desk filling out forms and asking other inmates questions. I asked several times what was going on and he told me to shut up. Eventually, I figured out that this was a "processing step" for being transitioned into the regular, permanent jail. I tried to explain to the cop that I had already appeared before the judge, and was told I could make a phone call to arrange bail and go. He asked me why I did not make the call in the main holding cell. I explained to him that the phone was not working and another cop had told me he would arrange for me to make a call, but it never happened. Again, he told me to shut up and continued asking me questions as part of the processing procedure. One of the questions, which I had already heard him ask others, is whether I identified as a "heterosexual, homosexual or bisexual." I said homosexual. He replied, "So you really are a faggot?" My response: "Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with this place?" He told me to watch my language, and not to bring Jesus into it. "He is your lord and savior," he said. "And now you're going to preach to me?" I asked. "As a matter of fact, I will," he said. And he did, rapidly reciting several bible passages, but more in a manner to show off his knowledge of the Good Book. I wasn't impressed.

I interrupted him to once again try and explain my situation. He asked, "Are you going to listen to me, or do you just want to talk?" To which I replied, "As a matter of fact, I would like to talk." He sat back with his hands behind his head, with a smug smile, and sarcastically said, "Well go right ahead and talk, faggot." So I did, and tried yet again to explain that my bail was already set and I just wanted a chance to arrange bail, or call a lawyer, and that until I could see a lawyer I did not feel comfortable answering any more questions. "Are you done?" he asked. "Yes," I replied. Then he became aggressive, yelled for me to get on my feet, turned me around, put my hands behind my back, held me by the wrists, and took me back to the solitary confinement cell. On the way, he shoved me ahead of him and used my face to open some double, swinging doors. "That's not very Christian like," I said. He didn't seem to care. When he left me in the cell and shut the door, he smiled and said, "Good luck getting out of here, faggot."

I was left in there for another few hours. In the meantime, my brother Tim had arrived from Connecticut, paid my bail, and was asking when I would be released. The only response he would get from cops was, "Your brother is causing trouble, and not being very cooperative." About the same time, an officer told me I could be released if I were more "cooperative" and "showed more respect." At my brothers continued insistence, I was finally released in the early afternoon. I had two black eyes and a sore nose, and my mouth and teeth hurt. I smoked a cigarette, and went and had a few drinks.

Though I did get my injuries documented at an emergency room, I could not interest any civil rights groups in the case, and could not afford a lawyer to take on the cops or the county. It was all I could do to afford another plane ticket home. In the weeks that followed, I received numerous solicitations in the mail from Virginia lawyers. "This charge, as you may know, carries with it the potential for a sentence involving up to a year in jail," one of the letters stated. "Whether you are guilty or not, it is very important you have an attorney," read another. "They will vigorously prosecute you by trying to prove your guilt and to get as heavy a punishment as they can," yet another, and another . . . "We have been attorneys for over 30 years, and we practice in all the Courts in Virginia and know the prosecutors, Judges, and the systems peculiar to the Court where you must appear." . . . "We charge reasonable and competitive fees." . . . "My office is located in Lawyers' Row, directly across the street from the Fairfax County Jail/Courthouse Complex. I conduct business in the Fairfax County Courts almost every business day. Perhaps you can benefit from my personal representation?" And so on. Speeding is apparently a lucrative business for all in Fairfax County, Virginia.

I paid one of the lawyers $700, and he appeared in court on my behalf, on September 5, so I did not have to fly back to Virginia. My charges were reduced to speeding (the speed changed to 65 mph), and I paid a $250 fine in addition to a $62.00 processing fee. But I got a decent beating for the deal, and even a bit of preaching.

My religious beliefs fall close to those of writer Edward Abbey's: "There has got to be a God; the world could not have become so fucked up by chance alone." If, by chance, the Christian notions of a particular Fairfax County Sheriff are correct, it would be fun to observe his judgment day. But I have a hunch God doesn't allow witnesses, and certainly won't be filming it.

Postscript: A few weeks later, driving with some friends, I was pulled over for doing 90 in a 75 in rural Montana. The highway patrolman gave me a warning, told me to slow down, be safe and enjoy my trip. I love Montana.

Historical Fiction Category

2008-12-16T12:00:00.000-08:00

Christo and Jeanne-Claude: Colorado Fish Wrap (A River's Scream of Freedom)

2008-12-14T12:26:00.001-08:00

By David Stalling

Christo and Jeanne-Claude have been wrapping things up for more than 50 years. They started off small, in 1958, with a dumpster-size, black-glob of a package wrapped in fabric, lacquer and rope. They wrapped up oil barrels, a night table, a Vespa motor bike, and by the mid-1960s they were wrapping up fountains and towers in Italy. They wrapped Switzerland's Kunsthalle in translucent plastic and wrapped Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Art in greenish-brown tarpaulin. Then they began wrapping up nature, covering cliffs, rocks and beach with erosion-control fabric along a 1.5-mile stretch of Little Bay on the coast of Australia. In 1972 they ventured to Colorado, and hung a 1,250-foot orange, nylon curtain across a Valley in the Grand Hogback Mountains. It looked like a giant dam.

In the 1970s and 80s, they wrapped up a Roman wall; created a 24-mile fence of white nylon hung from steel cables across the hills near San Francisco; made a walk way of yellow fabric in Kansas City; surrounded 11 islands with pink, floating fabric off the coast of Florida, and then covered up the Pont Neuf in Paris. On October 9, 1991, they had 1,800 workers simultaneously open 3,100 giant umbrellas spread throughout the landscape in both California (yellow umbrellas) and Japan (blue umbrellas.) They wrapped the Reichstag in an aluminum-surfaced fabric; stacked 13,000 colorful oil barrels inside the Gasometer in Germany, and covered 178 trees with polyester in Berower Park, Switzerland. Then off to the Big Apple, in 2005, where they hung 7,502 panels of saffron-colored fabric across the gates of Central Park. From the high vantage of a skyscraper, it looked like a flowing golden river of flags blowing in the breeze. Or laundry hung out to dry.

Now they want to cover a river--a 40-mile stretch of the Arkansas River between Salida and Canon City in south-central Colorado--with silvery, luminous fabric suspended from steel cables anchored into the river banks.

A few weeks after moving from Missoula, Montana to Washington, DC, I received an invite to a private, pre-opening exhibit called "Over the River: A Work in Progress," at the Phillips Collection just a short walk from my apartment in Dupont Circle. It was a pleasant, relaxed gathering with white wine only (lest you spill red on the samples of translucent fabric on display) and tasty hors devours. We 50 or so folks attending were the "first to survey the artists' preparations for their next widely anticipated work of art," I read, "tracing the development of this ambitious project over the last 16 years." I forgot my glasses, and so had to stand close and squint to see the collages, conceptual drawings, photographs, technical diagrams, maps, writings and sample fabric panels and cables hanging on the walls and set up on the wooden floors throughout several rooms. Christo and Jeanne-Claude haven't started the actual installation of anchors, cable and fabric yet, as they await completion of an Environmental Impact Statement and other bureaucratic, time-consuming reviews, public scoping meetings and approval from the Bureau of Land Management, the federal agency responsible for management of that portion of the river and land around it.

If the agency treated this proposal as thoughtlessly, carelessly and hastily as they allow gas, oil and coal-bed methane wells, roads, power lines and pipelines to permeate and scar our public lands and rivers, Christo and Jeanne-Claude could have proceeded long ago. But this is art; hardly worthy of the same time, attention and "priority status" given to the extractive industry, as ordered by the Bush administration. (Perhaps the artists could wrap up the Whitehouse, topped with a big red ribbon, as a house-warming gift to Obama.) Then again, we will need plenty of C02-emitting fossil fuels to power planes, cars, trucks and SUVs for the 560,000 people Christo and Jeanne Claude estimate will flock to the area during the several years covering installation, completion and eventual removal.

Modern art: creative, inspiring, lucrative. Like everyone working to persuade anyone of most anything nowadays—particularly Westerners in struggling rural communities—Christo and Jeanne Claude present an alluring economic case. On their website, here's how they put it:

"Many visitors will spend the night in areas surrounding the Arkansas Valley, bringing economic benefits to many communities, including Pueblo, Denver, Colorado Springs, the San Luis Valley and a host of smaller towns on the Western Slope. The total number of visitors represents slightly more than twice the number of persons who raft the Arkansas River in any given year and approximately the same number of yearly visitors to Mesa Verde National Park. Three out of five Over the River visitors are anticipated to come from out of state, spending an average of 4-5 days in Colorado for their trip. . . . In total, Colorado may garner more than $195 million in new direct visitor spending, more than what is projected for the Democratic National Convention ($160 million) and over twice the impact of the National Western Stock Show ($84 million)."

Which explains why nearly ever chamber of commerce, visitors' bureau and tourism council in the area, as well as several outfitting and expedition companies and organizations, have endorsed the project. As have art councils and cultural centers, who are duly pleased to have the accomplished, famous duo back in their part of the world.

Christo and Jeanne-Claude were both born within the same hour on June 13, 1935 (he in Bulgaria, she in Morocco) and met in Paris in 1958. They've been collaborating ever since. Their art is unique, creative, inspiring, and has been described as "transcending the traditional boundaries of art, profoundly shaping the way in which we see and experience our environment." Jeanne-Claude describes their art as "works of joy and beauty," but is reluctant to classify. "Christo and I believe that labels are important, but for bottles of wine, not for artists, and we don't like to put a label on our art," she said in a 2005 interview. "If one is absolutely necessary, then it would be environmental artists because we work in both the rural and the urban environment." To which Christo added: "Our work is a scream of freedom."

When an interviewer once asked how they respond to the critics who say their work is "more engineering than art," Christo responded, "Well, that is simple because, if you try to imagine a human being doing chemistry, mixing pigments, adding an egg, putting a little bit more oil, more of a different pigment. Now, that is pure chemistry? Or is it Leonardo DaVinci or Michelangelo preparing to paint a fresco on the wall? So, you could say that's chemistry, but it's definitely art. If you imagine two ironworkers with their hardhats and a forklift, lifting giant slabs of steel, now is that construction work or is Alexander Calder preparing a sculpture?" (Which brings to my mind an Albert Einstein quote: "All religions, arts and sciences are branches of the same tree.") Christo and Jeanne-Claude seem smart, bold, feisty, energetic, ambitious, genuine, sincere, honest and nice, if not a tad arrogant and quirky. I recently read about an interview in which Jeanne-Claude told a photographer, "You're too close. We are 73, and I don't want to be seen from so close. Then, I look like a fish."

There are fish in the Arkansas. Brown trout and rainbows, mostly, thriving in the cool, clear waters of the upper portion that meanders through Colorado. Originating from snowmelt in the Sawatch Mountains near Leadville, the Arkansas River is the sixth longest river in the country, flowing 1,469 miles through Colorado, Kansas, Oklahoma and Arkansas before merging into the Mississippi. Like most rivers, unfortunately, much of the Arkansas has been tamed, altered, defiled and otherwise subjugated to human greed, needs and desires—the usual sad assortment of ailments including dams, mining wastes, erosion, sedimentation and artificial introduction of non-native species such as brown trout and rainbow trout; An ongoing utilitarian, homocentric quest to mold and modify nature into what we want it to be. But parts of the river, in the headwaters of Colorado, remain wild—a tumultuous torrent of water cascading through and over and down ledges and narrow canyons in a series of waterfalls, rapids, riffles, pools and eddies. Spend enough time in or around wild rivers and you learn they are living, breathing entities in themselves, with their own distinct sense of smell, sound, taste and feel. Beauty and joy, indeed! Wild rivers, too, are a scream of freedom.

Needless to say I felt a bit uneasy at the Philips Collection exhibit. I was selfishly, provincially relieved that Christo and Jeanne-Claude did not choose any of my favorite rivers in Montana during their 5,000-mile quest for the "right one," in which they checked out 89 rivers in five states. I read the artists' vision of "waves of fabric," "playing off the natural lighting throughout the day, transitioning from shimmering pink in the morning light, to shiny silver in the mid-day sun, to golden as the sun sets," and I wondered: have they ever just sat along the bank of a wild river in solitude at sunrise or sunset or times in-between? Can such things be improved? "From the water level, rafters, kayakers and canoeists on the Arkansas River will view blue sky, white cloud formations and the undulating mountain skyline through the fabric," Christo and Jeanne-Claude state. "Cars and buses on US-50 will also get a unique view of Over the River from the roadway, where the fabric will reflect the colors of the sky."

Is this like altering the Mona Lisa to better fit one's own notion of beauty? Plastic surgery for Mother Nature?

"There's a sense that this kind of '70s-era 'environmental art' has more links to heavy industry -- to old-fashioned well-drilling and dam-building -- or to industrial-scale tourism than to some more recent art that's been made with genuine ecological feeling," wrote Blake Gopnik in the Washington Post, in regards to the Phillips Collection exhibit. "This whole exhibition feels more like a publicity campaign for a product than like a considered investigation of an important aesthetic event."

Indeed. Even the artists' response to concerns seem cut-and-paste from a gas and oil industry PR template: "Christo and Jeanne-Claude have a proven track record of avoiding and mitigating impacts associated with their works of art . . . Christo and Jeanne-Claude have proactively partnered with communities in the Arkansas River Valley to identify solutions to community concerns. . . Christo and Jeanne-Claude view wildlife as one of the Valley's greatest resources and are committed to ensuring that installation and viewing activities do not disturb wildlife. . . Christo and Jeanne-Claude understand the importance of the fishing and rafting industries to the Arkansas River Valley and are committed to working with them in the planning and execution of the temporary work of art." And so on. Regarding a hefty Environmental Impact Statement to be released, Jeanne-Claude stated: "And some of those who are against would say, 'Ah, you forgot about the butterflies, what about those butterflies?' Then the engineers who have prepared it will answer, 'If you look at page 257, you will see that we are talking about the butterflies.' That's just an example. If we have indeed forgotten something, which might happen, since this is only a draft there is time to correct it and say that no alligator will be endangered, for instance. (laughter)"

Ah, you forgot the inherent, intrinsic value of the free, wild river itself. What page is that on? If someone proposed temporarily wrapping my beautiful, 8-year-old son up on in translucent saffron plastic, so the light made his hair look more golden--even if they "mitigated" with a few breathing holes to ensure his safety--I would not be pleased. I feel that strongly about wild rivers. Like any love, like good art, it's difficult to grasp, never mind explain.

I tried, when asked, at the Phillips exhibit. My thoughts were met with apparent looks of disbelief, perhaps amusement, giving me a distinct feeling they felt, this guy just doesn't get it. Maybe I don't. But even after reviewing instructions, the "How To Read The Works" section of Christo and Jeanne-Claude's website (the Pont Neuf Wrapped, I learned, "could be seen as a very large sculpture, in a traditional sense of antique folds and draperies, however the bridge, while wrapped, remained a bridge."), I still don't quite get it; at least not the same as those who are excited about the project. Yet I think a purpose, the value, of good art is to evoke thought and discussion, to help bring out emotions and passion. In that regard, I commend Christo and Jeanne-Claude for their inspiring work.

In his book "The Abstract Wild," Jack Turner writes: "We treat the natural world according to our experience with it. Without aura, wildness, magic, spirit, holiness, the sacred, and soul, we treat flora, fauna, art, and landscape as resources and amusement. Fun. Their importance is merely a function of current fashions in hobbies." He talks about how most of our "wild" places are "photographed and exhibited" to the public, written up in guide books, plotted on maps and watched over by a "cadre of rangers." It's the "normal mode" of experiencing the wilds nowadays, he writes. "Most people know no other." So let's wrap it to look prettier! Fly to Colorado, rent an SUV, hire a guide, read the instructions, get a hotel room and buy a latte while we're at it.

I've spent a lot of time alone in remote places, listening to the ancient songs and stories of wild rivers running over rock on tumultuous journeys from snowmelt towards oceans; bathing in the clear, cool waters; watching the various lights and shadows dance across the surface; seeing, smelling, tasting and watching through ice and snow; thunderstorms and floods, clouds and sun, and shinning under stars and moon. Wild rivers are the greatest art of all, growing ever scarcer. Beauty and joy, they scream of freedom; we should listen, learn and leave them alone.

Out of the Shadows

2008-12-12T22:46:00.000-08:00

by David Stalling

I cast desires into darkness
Denying, suppressing, hiding
My true self, My true heart
On stages of illusions

The void fills and builds
With anger, fear, shame, regrets
A deadly mass of blackness
Ready to burst into a flood of pain

Until I confront it
Fight it
Let it out
And then I am free

Freefall

2008-12-12T21:30:00.000-08:00

By David Stalling

For years
I fed illusions
Of flying high
Until the ground grew frightenly close
Terrified, I suddenly realize
I am falling

Leaving the womb
Like leaping from a plane
Begins a tumultuous freefall
There are choices:
Remain frightened, out of control
Or get stable, and enjoy the ride
Until we meet the end
(and we will)
As sure as sky meets earth

Best to see it all now
Long before impact
While there is still time
Precious time
To enjoy an exhilarating ride
And make the most
Of the last 2,500 feet

So I will flare, flip and tumble
Through clouds and clear skies
And pretend I am flying, sometimes
Though I know better
But still it brings me joy

It's my jump, my journey, my fall
I'll do it as me, not to please others
Critics and skeptics be damned!
Who cares what they think?
They don't even know
That they too
Are falling fast

Can Environmentalists Hunt?

2008-12-11T21:56:00.000-08:00

by David Stalling

I have actively volunteered and supported efforts to help restore wolves in the West; protect our remaining roadless lands on National Forests; ensure our designated wilderness areas are being managed as they should; to have more lands designated as wilderness, and to restore grizzlies to the Selway Bitterroot Wilderness. I am a former employee of the U.S. Forest Service, have worked for several nonprofit wildlife conservation organizations, and recently worked on Global Warming issues for the National Wildlife Federation. I am also a member of Wilderness Watch, the Wilderness Society, Audubon, The Nature Conservancy and other such groups.

And I hunt. I kill and eat wild elk.

Does this seem contradictory? It's not if you consider our Nation's environmental heritage, and see that most of our environmental heroes---including Theodore Roosevelt (who created the national forests and wildlife refuges), Aldo Leopold (author of the environmental classic, "A Sand County Almanac) and Olaus J. Murie (founder of The Wilderness Society)---were all hunters.

I can understand people's disdain for hunting. As Edward Abbey (himself a hunter) once wrote, "Hunting is one of the hardest things even to think about. Such a storm of conflicting emotion!" I can't speak for all hunters, but will try and explain why I choose to hunt.

I love elk. They are a magnificent, mysterious and powerful animal. I spend all the time I can in elk country, year-round, hiking, backpacking, backcountry skiing and snowshoeing, observing and admiring elk. And yet, each year during bowseason I head into elk country with the intent to kill one. Why? Partly because I can think of no more ecologically-sound way to live in my part of the world. I cherish wild elk meat; it's healthy, and it's derived from healthy, native grasses and forbs in the wilderness near my home. I hunt mule deer and antelope for the same reasons.

I hunt to experience and celebrate a fundamental connection with nature, because we must all kill to eat, and eating elk nourished on native grasses and forbs has as low an impact on the environment as any of the alternatives. Even eating soybeans and soy-based products supports an agricultural industry that displaces and destroys wildlife habitat to grow a non-native plant, requiring irrigation, pesticides, herbicides, fossil fuels, trucks, roads and industry to be shipped around the country. Not to mention the thousands of deer and other wildlife killed to protect valuable agricultural crops. Most people are not aware of the impacts of their lifestyles and actions, or they choose to live in denial. The fact is, we all have impacts on the environment and wildlife. We all contribute to the killing of wildlife and animals to live.

Everything we do has consequences. Whether we choose to eat vegetables or meat, store-bought food or homegrown, cattle or venison, we all contribute to the death of animals so we can eat. I choose to eat the wild meat of elk, mule deer and antelope. And the money I spend in pursuit of these wild animals, through license fees and excise taxes on hunting equipment, helps protect the wild places that sustain them and sustain me. It's the most efficient, environmentally sound and sustainable way I know to live in this somewhat arid western landscape we call Montana. And the countless days and hours I spend pursuing elk and mule deer through the rugged mountains in the wilderness area where I hunt have provided me with a keen understanding and awareness of these incredible animals and their habitat, which has fueled a passion for the protection of wild elk, deer and other wildlife, and the wild places they roam.

North America's system of wildlife management, of which regulated hunting is an integral part, is a tremendous achievement. The value of wild elk and deer to hunters supports the protection and enhancement of wildlife habitat for an array and abundance of wildlife, including large predators and threatened and endangered species, and supports ecologically-based research and management. It's a sustainable system that gives many hunters a stake in wildlife, and fuels public understanding and concern for conservation.

I am growing increasingly upset over the ongoing loss of crucial wildlife habitat from human subdivision and development. Throughout the West, homes are rapidly replacing critical elk and deer winter range, calving and fawning habitat and migratory corridors. Not only elk and deer suffer, but all wildlife that depend on that habitat, including everything from ducks and trout to grizzlies and pine martens. My love for wild elk and deer provokes a strong desire to protect their habitat; That desire is fueled, in part, by my passion for hunting and the meat that sustains me.

So, in a nutshell, this is how and why I can cherish wildlife and hunting. I can think of no better lifestyle than roaming wildlands as a participant of nature, taking responsibility for the deaths I cause, and securing my own sustenance. In his essay, "A Hunter's Heart," Colorado naturalist and writer David Petersen summarizes it nicely:

"Why do I hunt? It's a lot to think about, and I think about it a lot. I hunt to acknowledge my evolutionary roots, millennia deep, as a predatory omnivore. To participate actively in the bedrock workings of nature. For the atavistic challenge of doing it well with an absolute minimum of technological assistance. To learn the lessons, about nature and myself, that only hunting can teach. To accept personal responsibilities for at least some of the deaths that nourish my life. For the glimpse it offers into a wildness we can hardly imagine. Because it provides the closet thing I've known to a spiritual experience. I hunt because it enriches my life and because I can't help myself . . . because I was born with a hunter's heart."

Some people suggest instead of a gun (or, in my case, a bow), that we hunters "shoot" elk and deer with a camera. I have taken, and occasionally still take, photographs of elk. But it is not the same as hunting. And it is certainly not a "natural" or "sustainable" relationship with animals. Film and photos do not provide me with winter food for my freezer. And I have visited enough mercury mines and chemical factories in Utah (run by the Kodak cooperation to make film and film-developing products) to know that even something as seemingly innocent and benign as wildlife photography can have terrible, unsustainable consequences for wildlife and wild places.

This is not to say that hunting and hunters are not without flaw. Certainly, there are a lot (and far too many) unethical hunters pursuing animals, who care little about the wildlife and good wildlife stewardship. Hunters need to do a better job at fostering a better sense of stewardship, responsibility and ethics among hunters; encouraging the highest standards of ethical conduct among all who hunt, and foster a deeper respect for the land and the wildlife it supports. In some ways, I often feel like an anti-hunter who hunts, disgusted and appalled at the behavior and attitudes of most hunters.

Edward Abbey is right on: It is a lot to think about, a storm of conflicting emotions indeed, but perhaps every body, particularly anti-hunters, should think a bit more deeply about where their food comes from, and what the consequences are.

We all kill to eat.

In Defense of Wilderness: A Purist, Elitist View?

2008-12-11T20:48:00.000-08:00

By David Stalling

"In matters of style, swim with the current; in matters of principle, stand like a rock." --Thomas Jefferson

Several friends refer to my wilderness ideals as "elitist" and "purist." One of them thinks mountain bikes should be allowed in wilderness, therefore boosting the number of people who might support wilderness. Another says my stubborn opposition to "seemingly benign actions" such as letting mountain climbers leave permanent anchors within wilderness turns too many people against the very concept of wilderness—hence, they’re not likely to support the creation of new wilderness. Yet another friend tells me that focusing on "trivial issues" such as keeping helicopter landing pads and permanent structures out of wilderness is a waste of valuable time and effort which would be better spent on "more important" battles. Compromise a little, they say, and we’ll have more people, more clout, more money.

But will we still have wilderness?

Some of it, of course, we’ve brought upon ourselves. We environmentalists love to jump on the Chamber-of Commerce bandwagon and tout the recreational and economic values of wilderness. People will come. They’ll spend money. They’ll buy lots of gear. It’s good for the economy. We partner with the boot and tent makers and help promote maps, trail guides, freeze-dried bananas and light-weight cappuccino makers. Subaru tells us that those who "get it" drive quietly to the trailhead in an Outback, and you can always hire a guide to make your trip easier and more convenient. Somewhere in the mire of raising funds, building partnerships and drumming up support, we lose sight of the object; we either forget, or choose to ignore, that wilderness is not just for people.

The very concept of wilderness designation derived from concern that most all other public lands were managed under Gifford Pinchot’s doctrine of the "greatest good for the greatest number of people." This is precisely what makes the Wilderness Act so remarkable: for an historical moment, we Americans humbly cast aside the utilitarian notion that all things exist for us. In a relatively few, small places, we actually decided that some land ought to retain its primeval character and influence, without permanent improvements or human habitation, to be protected and managed so as to preserve its natural conditions. As Gary Snyder puts it in The Practice of the Wild:

"These are the shrines saved from all the land that was once known and lived on by the original people, the little bits left as they were, the last little places where intrinsic nature totally wails, blooms, nests, glints away."

And it only makes up about 4 percent of the land of the continental United States. Is that really too much to ask?

Apparently, it’s a tough concept for some to grasp. Why else would the Forest Service propose to construct 129 Helicopter landing sites in Alaska wilderness to allow "people with limited time or physical ability easy access to some extremely remote Wilderness settings," to make it possible "for a greater number of visitors to easily enjoy more remote wilderness locations." The greatest good for the greatest number.

Wilderness management should more aptly be called people management, with the general idea of restricting people’s actions so as to reduce impacts and keep wilderness wild. There are already trails, signs, campsites, fire rings, lakes stocked with trout, damns, cattle grazing, structures, outfitting, use of mechanical tools, and other prevalent signs of people aplenty, either grandfathered into some wilderness or deemed necessary for social, cultural and recreational reasons. All of it diminishes wildness; we certainly don’t need more. Those responsible for wilderness stewardship could do worse than follow the advice of Michael Frome, from his book Battle for the Wilderness:

"The administrator’s responsibility should not be to outfitters and tourists, but to wilderness, free of economics and commercial considerations. The common goal of the visitor and the administrator should be to insure that future generations will know and enjoy the same degree of solitude that past generations have known and the same sense that nature, rather than humankind, prevails."

But homocentric utilitarianism is deeply ingrained in the human psyche. A business mentality prevails among federal land managers (and, increasingly so, among conservation and environmental groups) that people are customers, that their every desire and whim must be served. If opinion polls reveal that 58.6 percent of respondents want more loop trails, picnic tables, lean-tos, stocked lakes and helicopter landing pads then, by golly, that’s what they’ll get, Wilderness Act be damned. Leadership—providing people with purpose, direction and motivation, explaining to people what is right, persuading them to follow,—is sadly lacking, replaced instead by policies of compromise and appeasement. Those who get in the way on matters of principle are dismissed as extremists, purists and elitists.

I don’t accept the argument that demanding strict adherence to the Wilderness Act will erode support for wilderness. What sense does it make to gain more support for wilderness by destroying the very qualities that make a place wilderness? People supported wilderness when the Wilderness Act worked its way from grassroots conception through the halls of Congress and on to the President’s desk. I’m confident people still do. For those who don’t, we should try to gain their support by explaining what wilderness is and why it’s important—not by compromising our principles and making wilderness less wild. Wilderness is not a style that comes and goes with the seasons. Wilderness is a mater of principle. On that, we should stand like a rock.

Are there more important battles? Perhaps. But I can’t think of any.

Into the Grand Gulch: Excerpts from a Journal

2008-12-10T10:28:00.000-08:00

Preface: (Dec. 09,2008): I often scribble in little notebooks on my journeys, and then toss them aside where they disappear under piles of accumulated crap. Here's one that recently resurfaced, written on a trip into the Grand Gulch in southern Utah in the spring of 2004, before I was divorced and before I faced up to and accepted being gay. My father had recently died; my son Cory was four; my wife Chris and I were having difficulties, and I was trying to decide if I should leave the Montana Army National Guard or go with my unit to Iraq. I was confused, depressed. Some of it could have been written today, as I continue to struggle with similar issues.

Into the Grand Gulch: Excerpts from a Journal
Spring, 2004
By David Stalling

March 29:

After spending the night at a Comfort Inn in Blanding, I drove to the Kane Gulch Ranger Station to get a permit to hike down Grand Gulch and up Slickhorn Canyon. The ranger explained no one had been down to the lower part of the gulch yet this year, and said I might have problems reaching the river because of a big flash flood the previous fall, that apparently altered and perhaps blocked the lower half of the gulch. She also cautioned me to not go alone. She reminded by that the previous year a guy ventured into this area alone, got himself pinned by a boulder, and had to cut his own arm off to get free. He had become quite notorious for the deed. I did feel a bit foolish; I forgot to bring a knife.

I took off at about 10:00 am, and got a bit turned around on the flats (I also forgot my compass), but once I dropped down into beginnings of the gulch it was easy going. The upper gulch was crowded. I ran into a large group headed out, and a family camped at the first big junction. I stopped along the way to check out several anasazi ruins. I reached Bullet Canyon close to dark and hiked a few miles up Bullet looking for water, and camped near Jailhouse Spring. I went to sleepreading 'Wind in the Rock,' by Ann Zwinger, a good natural history of Grand Gulch and surrounding country.

March 30:

I awoke early and hiked without my pack to check out Jailhouse Ruin. Then I searched but couldn't find Perfect Kiva. Perfect indeed, I thought, if so difficult to find. After oatmeal and coffee, I packed up and continued down the gulch, stopping along the way to check out various petroglyphs (a flute player, bighorn sheep, lots of hand prints), kivas and ruins. I reached Polly's Canyon by dark, set up camp, ate, read and slept well.

March 31:

I was packed and headed down canyon early, and again stopped along the way to check out ruins. At Big Pour Off Spring, I met two guys from California who 'warned' me that I might have to swim a stretch through the Narrows, near Deer Canyon. I passed a camp with people who had three Llamas. I was ready to swim, if it would lead to more solitude. A prickly pear jabbed me good in the leg. I stopped near banister Ruins, ate lunch, and soaked my feet in a seep. I am feeling out of shape, and the trip is taking its toll; sore feet and muscles. I worry I might be pushing it too much to try and complete the entire 'loop' down Grand and up Slickhorn—close to 100 miles or so in all. I considered camping near Collins Spring for a few days, and then heading back out the same way I came in. But I pushed on, to the Narrows.

The Narrows was indeed 'blocked' by a big, deep pool of water—steep, insurmountable cliffs on each side. But I didn't have to swim. I was able to wade across, holding my pack overhead, reaching about belly-button-deep. The bottom was muddy, and slick, and I sank past my ankles. I fell several times, and got pretty wet, muddy and cold. I saw one set of footprints, someone who had headed in and back out, likely on a day hike. At last, I felt alone. I pushed on to Water Canyon and spent the night near a large, deep spring.

April 1:

This is 'point-of-no-return' day. If I continue all the way to the San Juan, then I will have to try and head out Slickhorn to make it back in time—as it's a shorter route out from there. Of course, I decide to go for it. I'm a bit nervous, though, as I do not know what it's like to try and get from the mouth of Grand to the mouth of Slickhorn. I've heard it's rough. I also haven't yet reached the 'flash flood' area yet, where the canyon could be blocked. Also, in her book, Zwinger tells of a 'hairy descent' near the first main junction up Slickhorn. All this, and I need to be out by Sunday morning. But fuck it. Of course I go for it--for the sake of adventure, for the sense of accomplishment, and other such foolish reasons that always seem to get me into trouble. On to the San Juan!

A raven showed me the Grand Arch. I was walking along daydreaming when a big, fat black raven squawked, startled me, lifted off from a cottonwood and flew within inches of me. I watched him fly, thinking how shiny and handsome he looked, as he curved to my left and went right through what seemed a solid, red wall but was the hole in the middle of the Grand Arch—camouflaged by the red wall behind it. It surprised me, and I think I would have missed it if not for the kind Corvid.

The going is getting tricky; lots of sharp, narrow bends where the flash flood the previous fall piled giant rocks, trees and other debris I was able to climb up and over or around. But all in all, I am making good time. My map comes in handy, as I am able to keep track of my progress and whereabouts—checking the passing of side canyons and turns and comparing it to the map. I wish I had brought my compass; but it's not necessary.

Previous days have been hot and sunny, but today is cloudy and cool. Nice to hike in. It seems it could rain. I'd love to witness a flash flood. I keep an eye out for ways to climb above it all just in case. The closer I get to the San Juan, the more narrow the canyon, the steeper the walls, and the higher the debris. I see several huge cottonwoods jammed into rocks piled more than 20-feet high. Powerful!

About a mile from the river, I had to pick my way around a 30-foot drop off. Below that, I ran into a couple from Missouri, who had hiked up from the river. They were on a rafting trip. Wanting to avoid them, I decided to set up camp about a half-mile or so from the river, up against a huge pile of boulders.

After dinner I hiked up above, took off my clothes, and sat on a large, flat rock for an hour watching the sun set. When I came back down, I stripped down again and jumped in a big pool; the water was cold but felt good. I washed my socks, shirt and skivvies and hung them on brush to dry. My shorts had ripped in the crotch and I wish I had remembered a small sewing kit. Moleskin, too, would have been nice. But I never remember such things. I am not as sore as I was the first few days, but the bone of my right heel hurts and it was a painful walking. I stopped several times to soak my feet in water and stick my feet in wet sand. That helped.

As chilly as it is, I can tell it's been a lot warmer down canyon. The grass is greener, the cottonwood leaves are fully developed and lots of flowers: Indian paintbrush; yellow flox, some cactus blooming. Near a water hole I saw an unfamiliar tree with yellow blooms that smell strong and pleasant. I can also smell sage and dirt. I love the smell of the desert.

A thunder storm came through this evening, and it rained a little, but no flash flood. The thunder echoing in the canyons was intense.

I find myself wondering what the people were like who lived here thousands of years ago and built what are now the ruins around me. I'm sure life was tough for them, and they worked hard. But did they know it was tough? What would they have to compare it to? Were they happy? Did they play? Fall in love? Love their kids? Did moms get worried if their kids were down in the gulch, in the path of flash floods, when it started raining? Did teenagers have contests to see who could climb the most treacherous cliffs? Did they find meaning and purpose to life? Did they experience feelings of satisfaction, depression, glee, sorrow, boredom? Were they grouchy, violent, timid, bold? Were any of them gay? And did they care? Lots is known about how they lived—what they ate, hunted, that they grew maze and cached corn and grains in well-crafted Carnes. But I wonder more about what they were like; what kind of people they were. Did they even know life existed outside these canyon walls?

One of the main reasons I came on this trip is to deal with my own depression. I don't fully understand why I have been so down. A combination of things I suppose: deciding whether to go Iraq or not with my unit; my father's recent death; a midlife crisis?

I like the feeling of being a sergeant again in the infantry, and leading soldiers. In some ways, I think I am a better sergeant now then when I was an active-duty Marine in my younger days. I am more mature, and respect the troops more. But am I just reliving my past? Trying to stay young? Or being young again? I'd love to be in Iraq with my unit, but would hate to be away from Chris and Cory. Does my platoon need me? Will they be okay without me? I know Cory needs me. He needs a dad to be there for him. Cory is the most important thing in my life, and should always come first.

It's been half a year or so since my dad died, and I still think of him every day. I still miss him. I still cry. I think because I lived so far from him for so long, and didn't see him much, it seems he is still alive in Connecticut and I can still call him, tell him about my latest adventure.

Although I have so many great memories of my father, I also feel sad thinking that he did not have a real happy life during the past 10 years or so. Maybe I am wrong, I don't know, but he seemed sad, just going through the motions. I hope I never get that way. I wish I had spent more time with him these past few years. I wish I had spent more time with him and really talked and listened. I was not always so kind or patient towards him.

Although I try not to, I still think of him as he was near the end: skin and bones, oxygen tanks, fighting to even eat, barely able to talk. Did he know it was the end? I think so. I wish I knew what he was thinking then, knowing his journey was over. I worry that I will always be sad when I think of him, and that's not what I want. I want to think of him and be happy, and remember all the good, the fun. Instead, I get sad, I cry, I feel guilty. Is this normal? And now I am crying again . . . .

April 2:

Windy last night. I had to get up twice to secure the tent. Sand blew in and all around. Sand everywhere and in everything, including my eyes, my ears, my nose and teeth. Sand up my ass!

I eat, pack up, and get on my way. Still cloudy, cool and nice. My ankle still hurts. I stopped and talked to the group camped at the mouth of Grand Gulch, along the San Juan—about six of them in all, two whom I had seen the day before, all from Missouri.

From there I embarked on the part of the trip that made me the most anxious—picking my way along the steep, solid cliffs between the mouths of Grand Gulch and Slickhorn. It was easier than I had expected. I had to scramble up and around lots of rock and scree, but in places I was able to stay down along the river, walking in the sand and pushing through the willows. I saw several groups of rafters floating down the river, and saw lots of geese and quail. I reached the mouth of Slickhorn at about 10:00 am. I soaked my feet for an hour or so in a pool of water—tons of water, lots of cool, clear water, deep pools and waterfalls, cascading over stair-like steps of emerald rock. Then I pushed on up the canyon.

Some thoughts I had while hiking today: I have the most wonderful wife, and the best little boy, and live in such a great place, and have a pretty damn good life. I should think of that more, and not let all the petty little bullshit things get to me so much, much of which is out of my control anyway. Do what you can and enjoy life.

I require these tough, challenging trips every now and then-- the type of trips, like this, during which I experience some doubt, reluctance, hesitations, but push on--and not only feel a sense of accomplishment, but regain my appreciation for this beautiful, rugged, wild land; and get to really know it, to develop intimacy with the land.

I require challenge, physical and mental. I require wilderness. This is the real world; the rest is artificial, which is why I get so confused and depressed. The real world is fairly straight-forward, and here I find simplicity, focus, clarity.
I will miss the National Guard, to be sure. But I know I don't need it. I think, in some ways, I used the guard to fulfill my need for adventure, and to prove to myself and others that I am still 'tough.' Of course, I also liked the feeling of being a good leader; but I can be a good leader to Cory. And I can provide leadership to efforts to protect the wilds. I 'proved' myself as a Marine, and can continue testing myself on these sorts of adventures. But I don't need the Guard, and it doesn't need me. I do need my family, and they need me.

I guess I hiked 15 miles or so today, and made it much further than I thought I would. The soak did wonders for my feet, and my ankle no longer hurts. I think I've worked out the kinks and sores. Today is the best I have felt, and I wish I had gotten in shape before the trip, as I may have enjoyed it more.

It rained hard all afternoon. I got wet and chilled, and almost stopped but glad I kept hiking. It was amazing to see the Canyons and pour-offs in the rain, with water running everywhere, lots of big waterfalls, and eerie, gurgling noises echoing off the walls sounding almost like voices at times, as if the ancient people were still here.

I felt happy today. It has done me good to be alone, to think, and write, and work out my problems. Or, shall I say, perceived problems. Because I really don't have any problems. Except getting older—which I'd rather not do. I want so bad to stay young. But not much I can do about it, except try to remain healthy, try to at least feel young, and take advantage of and enjoy any sort of 'wisdom' I may have gained from it all.

It's funny I felt so good today, because the weather was miserable. Sometimes, it seems, the more miserable the conditions, the happier I am. Misery makes me happy? Perhaps I need more misery in my life.

I can't believe I struggled with a decision to remain in the Guard and go to Iraq. I am such a dumbass at times. It all seems illogical now. I'm a strange person. When I get out, I need to apologize to Chris for even putting her through this, go turn in my gear, and say goodbye to the military forever! I need to focus on what's important, and spend all the time I can with Chris and Cory. I miss them both, immensely, and can't imagine being away from them for more than two weeks total. Instead of two-week's military training each year, I should go on more adventures like this. It's cheaper than therapy.

Someday, I would like to hike this same loop with Chris and Cory.

April 3:

Rained all night. I got up early, everything wet, cooked, ate, packed up and moved out. The weather cleared up a bit early in the morning, but the rain returned and lasted most the day, as did the wind. Again it was nice seeing and hearing water in the canyons. It was a steep climb out, but I made quick progress, followed by a long, boring walk on the flats out to the road. I was on the highway by noon. There was very little traffic, and tough to hitch a ride back towards Kane Gulch, where my rental car was. The first half-dozen or so cars passed right by, ignoring me, but then a family from Alaska picked me up and gave me a ride.

I spent the night in Moab, drank a bit too much, and hiked about 10 miles the next day in the Island in the Sky District of Canyonlands National Park. It was nice to hike without the damn pack. Then I drove to Salt Lake City, drank a bit too much again, and caught the plane out the next morning: home, to Missoula, Montana, Chris and Cory! All the things I love.

Gay Greats: Why Should It Matter?

2008-12-10T10:27:00.000-08:00

By David Stalling

When I was young and naïve I did something I regret: I joined the Marine Corps. I was cocky, considered myself tough, and bought into a lot of bullshit (unfortunately, still common) myths and misconceptions of manhood. Like most 20-year-olds, I was confused; I thought learning to kill and going to war might clarify things.

The Marine Corps emphasizes pride and tradition, forcing a lot of distorted history into young brains during boot camp. I learned all about past warriors, medal-of-honor winners and men who influenced and shaped the Corps, the U.S. Military and warfare in general. And, of course, I wanted to be like them. One such "hero" was Baron Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben.

A Prussian military officer, von Steuben distinguished himself in the Seven Years War and served under Frederick the Great. But he was discharged in 1763 and fled to France, where, years later, he met Benjamin Franklin, who urged George Washington to recruit von Steuben to train rebellious farmers into a proficient, disciplined enough force to take on the British. And so he did. Arriving to the colonies in 1777, he began training troops at Valley Forge in the winter of 1778. He did a pretty good job: von Steuben is widely considered the second-most-indispensable hero of the American Revolution after Washington. I learned that in boot camp.

What I didn't learn until years later is this: von Steuben was gay.

Most biographies of Steuben cautiously state that his homosexuality is "speculative." But here's a bit of evidence: He was discharged from the Prussian army and fled Germany because he was accused of "indiscretions" with "several young men;" He arrived in America with a "handsome" 17-year old Frenchman he was unusually close to; He became the protégé of Pierre L'Enfant (another gay man who George Washington hired to design our nation's Capitol city); He settled in New York (a gay-friendly city even then) and hung out in gay "social sets;" He died a bachelor in 1794 and left all his property to two men he was close too. And so on. Sounds pretty gay to me.

"Gay propaganda," I've been told, when I bring up such things. "Sketchy and speculative" at best. Perhaps. But I can relate to von Steuben: Not only did I also serve honorably in the U.S. armed forces, but I share his apparent fondness for young men. Maybe I (and other gays) look a bit too reaffirmingly into such matters? There's evidence Lincoln was gay, as well as "bachelor President" James Buchannan, and Frederick the Great and Alexander the Great and other greats who were likely gay greats. Why should it matter? And that's the point? Well, it matters because it shouldn't matter.

To suggest an historical figure may have been gay seems akin to accusations of murder, or thievery, or some fundamental flaw in their character. Particularly if they don't fit the stereotype. Sure, we don't speculate if historical figures were straight. It requires no solid evidence to attribute what most of society considers "good" traits to our heroes, even when proven false. Even though we know George Washington didn't really cut the cherry tree down, and likely told a few fibs in his life (who hasn't?) we still pass the story on as a lesson in honesty and integrity. The Marine Corps puts strong emphasis on honesty and integrity; unless, of course, you're gay. Homosexuality has been viewed as a flaw, a crime, and such serious allegations require solid proof: innocent until proven guilty.

In von Steuben's day, there were no terms to describe same-sex attraction, though it might be said such men had an "abstracted manner" or were "affected." It was in von Steuben's homeland, Prussia—while arguing to repeal sodomy laws in 1869—that Karl Maria Benkert coined the term "homosexuality." When I was a teenager and felt freakish, sick and confused about my attraction towards men, I did not know what "gay" meant. I occasionally heard the terms "fairy" and "light in the loafers," as my dad used to say. I knew I wasn't one of those. I knew I wasn't like Elton John or Liberace. I played football, I wore hiking boots.

I felt sick, and thought I could beat it. What better place to prove I was a tough, macho straight guy than the Marine Corps? Why not follow in the footsteps of other tough, macho heroes like, well, like von Steuben? Maybe if I had known about the speculations, maybe if I had been taught that men like Lincoln and Buchannan and Alex and Freddy the Greats were likely gay, maybe I would have felt a bit more secure and comfortable with my own self. Just as Marines are motivated by past warriors; just as blacks and women are inspired by leaders who came before them, it helps (at least for me) to know there were people like von Steuben. We don't hesitate to talk about the great women behind the great men of history, and the influence they may have had. What influence did that young handsome Frenchman have on von Steuben? Perhaps, he too is a hero? Who were the great men behind Lincoln and Buchannan and the Greats? And why are we so reluctant to teach such things? Why the shame? Why the cynicism? Why should it matter?

I spent much of my life in various stages of denial, suppression and living a secret, double-life. My shadows loomed large with shame, guilt and sorrow. There have been mental and emotional consequences in pretending to be something I'm not. If I had been more secure in my manhood, more understanding and comfortable with whom I am, I likely would not have felt the need to prove some misguided notions of manhood. I doubt I would have joined the Marine Corps. And even if I did, I would not have done the things I did.

Since I came "out," I have helped change a lot of people's views about being gay. I don't fit the "stereotypes," I am told. "You don't act gay," people tell me. Yet I fall in love with men. I have sex with men. That's pretty damn gay. I have a job now in which I play on my Marine Corps special-ops background to persuade people that the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy ought to be repealed, and that gays should be able to serve openly and honestly, and be treated equally and fairly, in the very armed forces von Steuben helped create. I am uncomfortable with the role. I still feel like I am acting. Certainly, gay people should not be discharged from the military for being gay. But why the hell would they want to serve in the military? Why would anyone—gay straight or otherwise—want to learn to kill? I wish I hadn't.

Perhaps I am non-stereotypical because I never felt comfortable being stereotypical. It seems a bit twisted that my defiance of the stereotype, derived from pretense based on fear of an ignorant, non-acceptant society, now helps create awareness and acceptance. Maybe Elton John and Liberace should have been my role models. Perhaps I should have worn light loafers. Or better yet, maybe our society should teach the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, and help people grow up more comfortable with whoever they are.

Certainly, I would have lived a healthier life more true to myself. Maybe von Steuben would have lived differently, as well, if his "abstract manner" were seen as natural and normal. But that's all in the past, as they say, history. If von Steuben hadn't lived the life he did perhaps we would not have gained independence from Britain and arisen as a nation dedicated to the ideals of liberty. Ironically, in von Steuben's homeland a gay person can now serve openly in the military. Here, in the good-ole-U.S. of A.—in which von Steuben played such a pivotal role in the fight for freedom—you can't. Fortunately, there are still heroes amongst us who continue the quest for equality. Some of them are gay.

Postscript: The other day I walked to Lafayette Park in DC to check out a statue of von Steuben. He's depicted sitting down, clad in little but a helmet, reaching out to a muscular, toned, naked young soldier holding a large sharp sword pointed towards von Steuben's crotch. The inscription reads: *MILITARY*INSTRUCTION* Nearby, I saw two hot guys holding hands. It was beautiful.

Why Don't I Listen?

2008-12-10T10:23:00.000-08:00

By David Stalling

My son wants to go walk in the woods. "The forest," he calls it. He wants to get off trail and "bushwhack" like daddy does. Instead, I take him to Barnes and Noble ("Barnes and Nibble," as he likes to call it.) I urge him to sit in the kid's section and read. It's good for him, I tell myself. But really, I just want to keep him busy, distracted, so I can nurse a hangover and browse through XY Magazine.

"Are you tired?, " he often asks.
"Yes."
"You should sleep more, daddy."
"Yes, I should."

He says he wants to go swimming. He wants to hike in the forest. I tell him if he finds a good book he likes, I'll buy it for him. I get another cup of coffee and browse some more. I think of "Cats In the Cradle," and I think of my father. He took me fishing a lot, and camping and hiking. I loved him. I still do. I miss him.

I text Erik: "What's up?"

My ex wife calls. "I need a break," she says. "Can you watch Cory tonight?" My brother calls: "Want to go mountain biking?" Paul calls: "Want to go backpacking?" Chad calls: "Want to hang out?" Jason calls: "Let's go fishing."

Why don't they leave me alone?

I text Erik: "What are you doing tonight?"

We cook a nice dinner, smoke a bowl, drink Merlot. We head for Al & Vics then the Silver Dollar. We drink Raspberry Stolis, doubles, and slam a few Vegas Bombs and shots of Jaeger. After "last call," we hurry to the store before 2:00 am so we can buy more wine and some Champaign. We go back to my house, or sometimes his apartment, smoke another bowl, talk, smoke cigarettes, drink wine, maybe play chess or Trivial Pursuit, watch South Park, listen to and download music. Maybe a run to Taco Bell, or cook more food, or jump in the shower, or have sex, or fight, or pass out, or some of it, or all of it. In the morning, or afternoon, we cook bacon and eggs, or go to The Shack, drink Mimosas, or Bloody Mary's, have sex again, or fight again, or both. It's often unpredictable.

I walk on shells, careful of what I might say, lest I set him off. If I mention my Marine Corps past, or my ex wife or son, he might call me a "murderer," a "liar," tell me how I fooled and deceived a woman and "ruined her life." He calls me a "pathetic loser" or "piece of shit." Guilt and shame overcome me. Perhaps I deserve this? Maybe he's right?

Sometimes, when I'm alone, I stop and listen to the wind, or the rustling of leaves, or the cackling of a Raven, or listen to water running over rocks in nearby Rattlesnake Creek--on its tumultuous journey from high-country snowmelt to the Clark Fork towards the Columbia and Pacific. I think of the salmon and steelhead and bull trout that struggle the other way, upstream. Seems a lot of work. I look up towards the mountains, the sky, the sun, the stars, the moon; it all speaks to me.

One crisp October night the full moon cast an eerie light on the large silver maple across the street from my home. The neighborhood monarch! Shaped like an elm, it was dressed in brilliant crimson leaves for Halloween. It was beyond beautiful: it was magical, spectacular, calming. It spoke to me. I told Erik about it once. His reply: "It's just a tree." Maybe he's right.

I've always been drawn towards things wild and free. I am intrigued by grizzlies. They are fascinating, powerful, magnificent and beautiful--particularly when their coarse, silver-tipped hair shines in the sun. They kill to eat, or scavenge off the dead to eat, like we all do, but mostly they keep to themselves. I wonder if they are consciously aware of a mad world closing in on them, robbing them of their place in this world. Probably not. They just go on living, the best they know how. They are neither ferocious nor mystical, as we like to think; they are what they are, focused on their day to day needs. In spite of it all, they remain full of spirit, full of life. I think they are happy.

Once, when my son was three, we sat on a ridge and watched a big boar feasting a few hundred yards below us, oblivious to our presence.

"What's he eating?" Cory asked.
"Elk," I replied.
"That's what we eat!" he said.
"That's right."
"Can we go down there?" he asked.
"No," I replied. "They can be dangerous. We should give him his space."

He listened. Now, when he sees a bear or fresh tracks, he reminds me. "Daddy, we should be careful," he says. "They need space."

But sometimes, when I am alone, I like to see how close I can get. I want to hear them. I want to smell them. I want to touch them. But I don't; I know better. I respect them, and I love them too much to do that. I give them their space.

My ex wife calls. "I need a break," she says. "Can you watch Cory tonight?" Cory says he wants to go swimming. He wants to hike in the forest. My brother calls: "Want to go mountain biking?" Paul calls: "Want to go backpacking?" Chad calls: "Want to hang out?" Jason calls: "Let's go fishing."

Why don't they leave me alone?

I text Erik: "What are you doing tonight?"

Erik often gets angry with me and says I don't listen. Maybe he's right. Things seem to go in one ear and out the other, swirling through the gray matter in-between, swept up by the tornado in my head, diluted by weed and booze and nicotine and young, lean bodies and Erik. He fills my head, abruptly shoving aside all other thoughts. He consumes me.

I want to lay next to him. I want to feel his lean, warm body tight against mine. I want to smell him and run my hand through his sandy blonde hair. I want to caress his back, touch his lips, kiss his neck, listen to him breath. Sometimes, I actually think I want to be him.

A large, dark, Scorpion tattoo adorns his right shoulder. Late at night, when he is sleeping beside me, I sometimes run my finger over it and just think. I am intrigued by Scorpions. They are fascinating, fierce and beautiful. But they can be dangerous. They need space.

I often sit on my front porch, smoke cigarettes, and look up towards the mountains to the north. I once threw on my backpack and walked from this very porch all the way to Canada. It took me eight weeks, hiking mostly off trail, "bushwhacking," through some of the most remote, wild country left in the United States--the last remnants of the "real world," the last vestiges of sanity. I only crossed three roads. Though I was by myself, I rarely felt alone. There were grizzlies, wolves, mountain lions, cutthroats, eagles, pine martens, wolverines, red squirrels, elk, mountain goats, ponderosa pines, lodge poles, white bark pines, larches and all manner of other life to keep me company. By the end of that journey I felt free, I felt happy, I felt alive.

Erik says I did it for attention, to brag about it, to boost my ego. Maybe he's right.

I miss Erik. I think of him all the time. I wonder what he's doing. I want to touch him, feel him, smell him. I want to hear his voice. Until recently, I called him everyday.

I also look at a picture of my son everyday. His eyes are bright and happy. His smile is like a brilliant, gold glacier lily blooming, beaming, even before the long winter snows completely melt away. He is filled with energy, hope, life and love.

He says he wants to go swimming. He wants to hike in the forest. He wants to go skiing and go to the hot springs. He wants to be with his daddy.

Erik often gets angry with me and says I don't listen. Maybe he's right.

A Visit to the "Cradle of Liberty"

2008-12-10T10:21:00.000-08:00

A Visit to the "Cradle of Liberty"
Category: Writing and Poetry

'Cradle of Liberty' Provides Hope for 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' Repeal
by David Stalling

On Friday, November 21, I ventured to Boston to participate in a tribute to the Massachusetts legal community and its efforts to repeal 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' (DADT), sponsored by SLDN and Boston College Law School Lambda and the Coalition for Equality.

The 'Cradle of Liberty' seemed an apt place to host such a gathering for people fighting for civil rights and justice. It was my first trip to Beantown, and I had time last Saturday to walk the Freedom Trail and check out the historic old haunts of Samuel Adams and Benjamin Franklin; to see the Old State House where the Declaration of Independence was first read from the balcony overlooking the site of the Boston Massacre; to admire the 'new' State House built on what had been John Hancock's land where Samuel Adams and Paul Revere set the keystone in 1795, and glance at the Old South Meeting House where colonists gathered before the Boston Tea Party.

The reception I attended at Boston College Law School was not quite so rebellious as dumping the King's tea in the harbor, but the 35 or so people attending are no less committed to the ideals of freedom; the spirit of, and quest for 'liberty and justice for all' is alive and well in Massachusetts.

The tribute was hosted by SLDN Board Members Jackie Gardina and Shannon McLaughlin. Gardina graduated magna cum laude from Boston College Law School, where she also worked as an adjunct professor, and is now a professor at the Vermont Law School. McLaughlin, also a graduate of Boston College Law School, is a partner in the law firm McLaughlin and Kim, is a Captain in the United States Army Judge Advocate Corps with the Massachusetts Army National Guard, and has served in operations Enduring Freedom and Noble Eagle. Both serve as tireless volunteers to help repeal DADT. As the night's guest speaker, SLDN staffer and Army veteran Sergeant Darren Manzella (who served two tours in Iraq and, among other achievements, earned the Combat Medical Badge for providing medical care to soldiers and civilians while under enemy fire) told his story of coming out while in the Army; serving as an openly gay soldier; his experiences participating in a 60 Minutes special about serving as a gay soldier in Iraq, and his discharge from the Army under DADT. Manzella's story not only gets to the heart of the tragic injustice of DADT, but certainly resonated with the students and others attending the Boston event-including Congresswoman Niki Tsongas (D-MA).

After Manzella's presentation, Tsongas came to the podium and urged people to 'keep up the pressure' on Congress to ensure all individuals, regardless of sexual orientation, can serve openly, honestly and be treated fairly and equally in our military. A member of the House Armed Services Committee, Tsongas was the 137th co-sponsor (there are now 149 co-sponsors) of The Military Readiness Enhancement Act (H.R. 1246). Tsongas says she is 'continuing the proud traditions' of former Massachusetts Congressman Marty Meehan, who she replaced in representing the state's fifth district. Meehan introduced and sponsored H.R. 1246, as well as a previous version of the bill, H.R. 1059.

'It was with the support of the district I now represent, and the vision of Marty Meehan, that this out-dated policy has come to the attention of Congress with such powerful effect. And, we are here today in part because Rep. Meehan courageously championed this repeal,' Tsongas said during the recent July 23 Congressional hearings on DADT. 'Young men and women deserve the opportunity to serve and protect their nation regardless of sexual orientation, not just because they are proud patriots, but because this country is as much theirs as it is yours or mine.'

Her late husband, Massachusetts Senator Paul Tsongas, was the first U.S. Senator to introduce legislation to ban job discrimination based on sexual orientation, and one of her first votes in the House of Representatives was in support of Massachusetts Congressman Barney Frank's (D-MA) Employment Non-Discrimination Act to help protect gays and lesbian in the work force. The entire Massachusetts delegation is on board with repeal of DADT, and Senator Ted Kennedy (D-MA) has expressed interest in introducing legislation in the Senate to repeal DADT.

'While we have made great progress in Massachusetts and a handful of other states, as a nation, we still have a long way to go,' Tsongas said. Yes, indeed. In a 2005 poll conducted by the Boston Globe, 79 percent of the participants said gays and lesbian should be allowed to serve openly in our military. More recent polls conducted elsewhere in the country reveal similar results, with about 75 percent supporting repeal of DADT. Let's hope the rest of the nation follows the lead of Massachusetts.

Friday's tribute to the Massachusetts legal community was well deserved, and it was an honor to attend such an event in Boston, the 'cradle of liberty,' where the fight for justice and equality is a strong tradition still carried forth by brave and dedicated patriots! I certainly returned to DC more motivated than ever to help repeal DADT. I think we can all be inspired by Massachusetts's proud history in the pursuit of freedom for all.

US Senate Testimony: Global Warming

2008-12-10T10:20:00.000-08:00

TESTIMONY SUBMITTED FOR THE RECORD
By David H. Stalling

TO THE SENATE ENVIRONMENT AND PUBLIC WORKS COMMITTEE
FOR THE CLIMATE CHANGE AND WILDLIFE HEARING
FEBRUARY 7, 2007

Thank you for this opportunity to submit testimony regarding global warming and

wildlife. More importantly, thank you for boldly taking on this vital, often controversial issue, and seeking solutions to the greatest challenge of our time.

My name is David Stalling, and I live in Missoula, Montana. I am not a scientist or a wildlife biologist. However, I am an avid hunter, fisherman, backpacker, hiker, mountain biker, backcountry skier and snowboarder who deeply cherishes the wildlife and wildlands surrounding my home. That is what brought me to Montana when I was honorably discharged from the Marine Corps in 1986, and it's what keeps me here. It's my passion and love for wildlife and wild places—inspired by my hunting and fishing—that keeps me fighting for the conservation and protection of fish and wildlife habitat and the wild places that sustains them. Currently, I work as a grassroots organizer for Trout Unlimited, a national nonprofit dedicated to the protection of coldwater fisheries and watersheds. Prior to that, I worked for the Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation, another nonprofit dedicated to the protection of critical habitat for elk and other wildlife. I have also served two terms as President of the Montana Wildlife Federation, Montana's oldest
and largest hunting, fishing and conservation organization, and often volunteer for the National Wildlife Federation. In addition, I write about wildlife, conservation and natural history for a variety of national magazines, helping people develop a better understanding of science and policy in regards to wildlife and wild places.

The scientific evidence regarding climate change, and the consequences of human-caused release of global warming pollution, is conclusive and overwhelming, with even stronger evidence seeming to come forth every week. Those of us who are close to the land, and spend time among wildlife in wild places, are seeing much of this evidence first hand. Two summers ago, I hiked from my front porch in Missoula to Waterton, Alberta. During this eight-week, 800-mile backpack trip, mostly off trail, I only crossed three roads, traveling through the Rattlesnake, Mission Mountains, Bob Marshall, Great Bear and Scapegoat Wilderness Areas, and Glacier National Park. This is some of the wildest, most unique and precious country left in the United States, providing the last strongholds for rare, threatened and endangered species such as grizzly bears, wolves, mountain lions, lynx, wolverines and pure strains of Westslope cutthroat trout and bull trout. With strong populations of elk, mule deer, bighorn sheep, mountain goats, moose and other wildlife, these places also provide some of the best hunting and fishing left in the nation.

But even here, in such remote, wild places, I witnessed evidence of what scientists and wildlife biologists have been warning us about for years. Snowpacks, so crucial in the arid West for supplying water to our rivers and streams, are rapidly declining. Diminished water flows makes for shallower, warmer streams, with less oxygen, making it more difficult for coldwater fish such as trout to survive. Increasingly, the Montana Department of Fish, Wildlife and Parks are implementing summer closures of rivers to fishing to protect trout overly-stressed from hot, dry conditions. On my journey, I also saw large chunks of forest impacted by increased occurrence of mountain pine beetle, which scientists are linking to trees being less resistant to insect and disease because of drier, more stressful conditions, and was particularly concerned by the rapid death of
most white bark pines, which provides an important food source for grizzlies and other wildlife. I also walked through large expanses of charred forests burned by recent wildfires. Our western forests evolved with, and are adapted well to fire. However, drier conditions, combined with an increase in dead trees from beetle infestations, are resulting in more frequent, more damaging fires than what historically and naturally occurred, with serious implications for wildlife. Towards the end of my adventure, while hiking through Glacier National Park, I could visible notice a profound decline in the size of glaciers I have visited in past trips. Many scientists are predicting the glaciers in the park will be gone within 10 years.

I work with and speak to hunters, anglers, outfitters, guides, ranchers, county
commissioners, tribal leaders and others throughout Montana and the West, and I hear similar reports and concerns from them about changes on the landscape, and its impacts to water, fish, wildlife and our western way of life. What I hear from fellow hunters and anglers is consistent with a recent survey commissioned by the National Wildlife Federation, examining the attitude of hunters and anglers regarding Global Warming; We hunters and anglers are witnessing the effects of global warming and believe immediate action is necessary to address it. Eighty five percent of us believe we have a moral responsibility to confront global warming, and eighty percent of us believe our nation should be a world leader in addressing this issue. I am definitely among the 75 percent of hunters and anglers who agree that Congress should pass legislation that sets a clear national goal for reducing global warming pollution with mandatory timelines.

Others can speak more authoritatively about the importance of these wild places, wildlife, and associated hunting, fishing and other recreational opportunities to the economy of Montana and the West. And it's true. In Montana alone, more than one million people enjoy our state's abundant wildlife each year, contributing more than $880 million to our state's economy. But more importantly, our nation's wildlife and wild lands—along with related hunting, fishing and other outdoor recreational pursuits—provide unique cultural, social and even spiritual values not only for us Montanans, but for all Americans. This is why great American leaders such as Theodore Roosevelt fought so long and hard to protect what remained, in his day, of our nation's wildlife and wild places. Today, our wildlife and wildlands face threats that Roosevelt probably could never have fathomed. But I am confident he would not have shied away from the challenge. Neither should we.

This is not, nor should be, a partisan issue. In Montana, I know Republicans, Democrats and Independents who all share a concern about global warming, and a desire to see something done about it. Thank you to those Senators and Congressmen who are boldly taking steps to confront this issue. For those who are still not on board: I urge you to take a closer look at the scientific evidence and consensus, to listen to us citizens who are witnessing the impacts first hand, set aside partisan politics and various industrial and corporate pressures, and tackle this issue with the sense of urgency and immediacy required. We do, indeed, have a moral obligation to do what we can and as quickly as possible.

I urge you to take immediate steps to curtail green house gas emissions; develop more conservative, responsible energy policies that include alternative and renewable sources of energy, more efficient ways of using energy, and reduce our need to burn fossil fuels. Even with immediate, yet important reductions in greenhouse gas emissions, changes will continue with negative impacts to fish, wildlife and wild places. Therefore, I also urge you to include, in legislation regarding climate change, funding specifically dedicated to help states protect and restore fish and wildlife habitat through the Wildlife Conservation and Restoration account of the Pittman-Robertson Wildlife Restoration Act.

As for my part, I will continue to do my best to help persuade and rally citizens to
support your worthy efforts. I know that a majority of my fellow hunters and anglers in Montana, and elsewhere in our country, are already sending a message loud and clear: The time for action is now.

Thank you, again, for this opportunity.

Brokeback Mountain: Best Elk Hunting Movie?

2008-12-10T10:18:00.000-08:00

By David Stalling

I saw Brokeback Mountain at the historic Wilma Theatre, a short walk from my home in downtown Missoula, Mont. Built in 1921 by producers of a Wild West show meant to bring 'entertainment and culture' to Montana, it is a place where Will Rogers once performed his cowboy satire. Between the old sound system and bad ears from my time in the Marine Corps, I had difficulty hearing what sparse dialogue there was. But the landscape was spectacular, and I could pretty much guess what Jack and Ennis were mumbling after having read Annie Proulx's story twice.

The first time I read it, I was still closeted and married—fighting, denying, and suppressing my attraction to men—and I was leading a secret, shameful double life. The story hit deep and hard, and I felt doomed to a life of deceit. I read it again last year, when hype about the upcoming movie first hit the press. By then I was out, best friends with my former wife of 14 years, and living more honestly to myself. My second reading of Brokeback Mountain struck a radically different note, of course, making me grateful I'd found the courage to change my own story to a happier ending.

What surprised and moved me most about the movie was the elk hunt. Jack and Ennis lose their supplies when a black bear (played by a sadly tame, fat Hollywood bear) spooks their horses. Hungry and out of food, they sneak up on a bull elk and shoot it. We see the bull stumble and begin to drop, followed instantly by a scene where Jack and Ennis are sitting around a fire, cheerfully gorging on wild elk while strips of meat dry a makeshift rack behind them. It might be the best elk-hunting scene since Jeremiah Johnson or The Last of the Mohicans.

As was the case with my long struggle to come to terms with my homosexuality, I also struggle with my identity as a hunter. I'm sort of an antihunter who hunts. The majority of my fellow hunters leave me saddened. Seemingly caught up in an endless quest to kill the biggest possible bull or buck with the least possible effort, they tear up the land with off-road vehicles, spend fortunes on gadgets meant to replace woodcraft, routinely take shots at distances that show no respect for either themselves or their quarry, and curse the 'damn wolves' they claim are eating all 'their' elk and deer. I love wild meat—bloody and rare—yet I almost see myself as an atavistic vegetarian, eating native sedges, pine grass, and fescues wild elk have converted to protein. In much of the West, hunting is still a sustainable way to live. Through countless hours of hiking and stalking, crawling and slipping through remote, rugged wild country in pursuit of wild elk—seeing and smelling, hearing and feeling not just elk but wolves and grizzlies, pine martens and wolverines, mountain lions and bull trout—I have come to deeply cherish wildlife and the wild places they roam. I have spent most of my life working and volunteering for nonprofits that strive to protect what little wilderness remains. I can't recount how many times hunting has restored me through these primeval connections between predator and prey, between humans and wild things, between heart and soul that unfortunately too few people still experience. Instead, we are in denial and delude ourselves, pretending we are somehow separate and distinct from nature.

I spend a lot of time in elk country, alone in remote places, hunting, fishing, backpacking, snowshoeing and backcountry skiing. I am happiest and most myself—truest to my own nature—in wild places among wild animals. There is always the rare chance a mountain lion or grizzly might judge me a decent feast, but they certainly don't seem to care whom I sleep with. Jack and Ennis falling in love in the wilds, killing and eating wild elk—I didn't need to hear dialogue to relate to that! The movie's tagline sums it up: 'Love is a force of nature.'

I occasionally surf The Bowsite, a chat room where fellow bow-hunters often post rants against liberals, antihunters, wolves, grizzlies, and tree huggers. For fun, on the Big Game Forum, I posted a new thread: 'Brokeback Mountain: Best Elk-Hunting Movie?' Since folks on this site often and justly complain of poor Hollywood depictions of hunting, I mentioned that here was a good positive portrayal. The response didn't surprise me. People with screen names like Terminator, Sewer Rat, Bearman, and ElkSlayer wrote things like 'No queers could really hunt elk'; 'Elk are too majestic an animal to be killed by faggots'; 'Imagine a gay elk camp: guys would worry that camouflage makes them look fat.' The Bible thumpers chimed in, quoting all the antigay gospel they could muster; one claiming that 'no good, God-fearing Wyoming cowboy would engage in homosexual behavior.' I finally asked if any of them had actually seen the movie. Most said they would never watch a movie about 'two faggots.' Since I had actually seen it, one guy said he 'sure did wonder' about me. Another guy called the movie 'Hollywood propaganda to promote a liberal homosexual lifestyle.'

If that's the case, someone in Hollywood screwed up. The movie, like the book, is a heartbreaking depiction of being gay. It goes to the heart of the fear and prejudice that lead to so many sad, desperate, unfulfilling lives. Brokeback may change some minds, but I hold no illusions that my fellow bow-hunters or most rural Westerners will ever accept me into their fold—a gay, wolf-loving, tree-hugging Force Reconnaissance marine who kills elk. Then again, who knows? Perhaps when the DVD is released, a few might sneak it home, secretly watch when no one is around, and face their own internal turmoil.

In the meantime, fortunately, there still exist remote, rugged, wild places where a man like me can roam, true to the forces of nature, and sit around a fire eating wild elk.