When We Knew The Land

When We Knew the Land

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I’m nostalgic for the West I used to know.

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A place where you could drive a two-lane highway and only pass one or two old ranch vehicles.

People offered the one- or two-finger wave — the quiet acknowledgment typical of friendly Western folks.

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Uncrowded rivers.

Alone in the woods.

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The Motel 6 in Jackson was still a dive. Cheap. You could walk in and get a room, even on a Friday night.

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You could actually feel lonesome in the woods because you weren’t hyper-connected to every facet of life. Technology hadn’t yet exposed every honey hole on the river.

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You had a compass.

Maybe.

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You knew that if you followed a drainage north, it would eventually lead to a larger one — then to a river. From there, you could safely find your way home.

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You studied maps. You had an intimate relationship with geography.

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Fishing was easy, and fishermen didn’t wear flat-brimmed hats — except the skater punks who loved to fly fish and were some of the most genuine people on earth.

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Kids would fight during high school lunch in the Slaughters’ driveway. It was always fair. You knew that if you took a cheap shot, you’d be looked down upon — labeled a cheat. So you stayed honest. You kept the punches clean.

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Gas was between $0.97 and $1.15. Five dollars went a long way.

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Land wasn’t covered in cookie-cutter homes built by cheap developers chasing a quick buck.

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The Valley Café sat on the outskirts of town, surrounded by alfalfa fields and rangeland along old Route 6. Even though it was only half a mile from town, it felt worlds away.

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Now it’s a supermarket.

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Ranches could be small and still make a living — raise a family with a hundred or so head of cattle.

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I’ve cared deeply about conservation, clean water, and open space since an early age. In 1994, with a long fourteen years under my belt, I wrote a letter to the editor of the Vail Daily expressing my sadness and concern about the proposed Cotton Ranch housing development.

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Six hundred homes were going to replace roughly two thousand head of cattle — and centuries of history.

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When soil is plowed up, it never really comes back. Not in any of our lifetimes, anyway.

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Wildlife is pushed to the margins. Streams choke with sediment.

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New people move in, many unaware of the past, or even the present. They bring their leash laws and cold personalities with them, and fail to make conversation with the obvious locals.

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I’m not against people moving — I’m a transplant myself. I just wish more transplants took the time to learn the history and culture of the places they choose to live.

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The old-timers had a pulse on the weather far keener than any forecast. They watched the signs. What were the livestock doing? The elk? The deer? The birds?

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They knew.

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They shared a kind of timeless wisdom — the sort that can only be earned under a greasy hat brim.

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Most of those people are gone now, taking with them an old-school love and understanding of the land and its riches.

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Those people were wealthy — far wealthier than any billionaire. They had conviction, respect, and were grounded like only someone with calloused hands can be. They understood that real riches didn’t come from money, but from the absence of material possessions.

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Status was measured by character. By whether you could get the job done.

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As these folks fade into history, so too does a collective love, understanding, and respect for the natural world. People are increasingly losing touch with how critical this relationship is to humanity’s survival.

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To most, it doesn’t matter. They’re here to make their mark, extract what they can, and move on — rarely thinking about tomorrow.

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Or about how their grandchildren will one day inherit the earth.