For months i have lived in Moab. Last week i visited Arches National Park for the first time. In an effort to avoid miserable bureaucracy i entered under cover of the early morning darkness for my pilgrimage to Delicate Arch. On my way out of the park i stopped by the visitor’s center and found two words proudly displayed aside a photo of Edward Abbey, that cheeky anarchist, and oh boy, here we gooooooo:
“industrial tourism“
As i returned through town i visited the local bookstore that opened the year after his death and spent $9.99 plus tax on the cheapest of three versions of Desert Solitaire. I’m sure that eventually i’ll get around to reading all of it, but one essay had me more interested than the rest: Polemic: Industrial Tourism and The National Parks (polemic- a controversial argument). In those twenty-five pages Edd shares thoughts about the changing of the times, the transition to a paved and automotive future of our lands designated as the most revered.
But first – a detour regarding relics of old. Cactus Ed’s desk. This treasure was rescued from forgotten storage by his widow, Clarke Abbey, and delivered here to be revered. Sitting upon it is a facsimile of his first draft of Desert Solitaire, looseleaf, wreathed in editorial remarks and saturated with cut content far sassier than what made it to print. In a 50th celebration of the book a kickstarter was held to raise funds for its reproduction. Fifty copies were produced. I am very thankful that the entirety of Polemic’s first draft (working titles: Parks or Parkinglots? Industrial Tourism and the Parks Out of Doors: Are Tourists People? Are Park Rangers human?) can be read here for far less than the $750 listing price i saw online.
Does his desk also want for an unmarked grave beneath endless, cloudless skies beside its owner? Does it resent the oily fingers which touch it, fingers probably controlled by the very industrial tourists who its owner resented and lamented, peeved and pitied? I plied it for answers. Much like the no-name resting site of its former master it replied “no comment.”
A week passes. I sit at a paved area of designated automobile tourism, waiting for the sunrise to paint colors upon my Moab Rim, upon my La Sal Mountain Range, and the glory of the petrified dunes, my newest companion, while reading my mass printed pernicious polemic prose. Eddard’s manifesto washes over me like a torrent of acid rain in this drought season. A blessing, but it stings and scorches me terribly oh so terribly. This legend, this anti-hero of environmentalism, this painter of pictures with his tremendous text looks directly at me as he composes in 1967, “in the first place you can’t see anything from a car.” A man nearby shares these blue moments of nautical dawn on telephone calls within his four door sedan before driving off just as the sun rises. He at least gives me the courtesy of a “good morning,” as do the other sunrise enjoyers on their collapsable P65 warning adorned plastic chairs, unlike the daytime tourists i mingled with last week who rarely even spared me a passing nod.
The ancient road that led Eddy to his fated summertime government housing lies forgotten beside the paved demon, the asphalt amusement park ride i have now roamed twice, that i now sit adjacent to. My mind and soul bubble and sizzle and i find myself transmuting: half of me a man in this plastic robot future, composing these his sorry thoughts on aged tech in an aged case held together by aged tape – half sitting at a heavy desk, plinking at a typewriter while referencing swirling script in a weathered notebook, eyes aflame, positing if tourists are really people and if park rangers are really human. My sorrowful future consciousness reaches back, pleading, are you aware of the darkness to come? The advancement of decadent tourism? A monolithic recreational vehicle howls by behind me. What sabotage would you commit, seeing your words and legacy so praised in an institution you would so resent?
The sun has fully risen, he cooks the bite of night from my soul, my spirits, and my bony fingies with his majesty. My coffee has also worked its wonders, and lest i soil my last remaining pair of undamaged cotton legwear i depart my glorious viewpoint to drive to the nearest facilities down at the visitor’s center (i fully neglected the view to the north all morning, the orange dance upon the Courthouse Towers. no worries, i will have other sunrises – besides, i already beheld their wonder for two summers in the 50s.) My commute down the switchbacks of Arches National Park Road grant a view of its entryway. The queue is in its early morning infancy with timed entry permitted vehicles approaching the cashless national park gates. Why ever would the parks of my nation accept the currency of my nation? But i am being foolish, plastic is the currency of my nation these days.
Outside the visitor’s center a park ranger hoists the American flag as i gather two handfuls of sun scorched litter. I finish my morning duties and flush my toilet, as well as the toilet of a foreign tourist as he washes his hands. He doesn’t look at me.
I ask a ranger at the front desk about what questions he gets the most often. He replies with a meaningless “depends” and doesn’t elaborate any further. I gather more litter from the parking lot as i depart.
The day has arrived, sporting a nice 69 degrees as i drive by the longer queue of automobiles with their windows up. I merge onto 191 south as the Florida tourists who were tailgating me impatiently try to overtake me on my right side.
OPEN EVERY DANG DAY
FREE COFFEE FOR LOCALS
I struggle to eat a cinnamon roll the size of my face, thankful for the free coffee aiding me in my labor. Through the speakers Robert Zimmerman moans about road walks and blowing winds while Edmund’s words continue to blister my wet skin, painting an idealized future of National Parks free of motors but indebted to humans and nature. I sip on black coffee, pretty smoky and dark for a diner cuppa, as Edgar looks up to see the sky and sleeps in the sand like a holy dove. I pause every few paragraphs to take another bite and close my eyes and sit in the quiet National Monument from a bygone age, arches washing to the sea. I reach the end of my twenty-five page fantasy (but not my pastry, i tap out with about eight bites remaining) and Freewheelin’ Anarchy Abbey removes survey stakes placed by the Bureau of Public Roads.
Based on my lackluster research, this action could be considered a violation of 18 USC § 641 Theft or Destruction of Government Property, 18 USC § 1361 Willful Injury to Government Property, or 18 USC § 111 Impeding Federal Officers, with punishment anywhere from one year in prison to seven years of prison with a possible fine from $1,000 to $250,000. Ebbey Adward was lucky to have lived in an age when these acts were celebrated and fetishized instead of in current year surveillance state dystopia.
not an ending
as my old parasocial friend john 117 would say, i think we’re just getting started.
man i dunno 