Vinceland

Back in the day, human lives were way more naturally connected to the outdoors. With the advent of shelter, and eventually densely populated cities, people distanced themselves a bunch from their local environment and the effect it had on their lives. I kinda think that’s made people meaner, stupider and more stressed out, over time.

People today like to “stay connected” or “get reconnected” to nature by going fly fishing, skiing, hiking, biking, walking, swimming, kayaking, shooting animals or just stepping out for a smoke. There are whole industries that are built around people’s desire to get out of the city and immerse themselves in the beauty and peacefulness of nature. I write for some of them.

Others, the so called “armchair outdoors-people”, get their nature fix by watching it on television. Dozens of dedicated, outdoor networks beam shows produced on a shoestring budget aimed at the lazy and unmotivated (myself included.) There are even video games for armchair bass fisherman and hunters, so they never have to lift more than a few fingers to feel what it’s like to stalk the kings of the woods and waters. My guess is they don’t get as much out of it as those who hunted and fished as a matter of survival.

Interestingly, there are tons of people in the world today who fancy themselves well connected to the outdoors, through one means or another, even though they spend very little time outside, in the sunlight, throughout their life. It’s now socially acceptable, and even preferred, to be aware of the benefits of spending time outdoors, and claim that you do, even though it’s only to get from your front door the car, get coffee, and get back in the house at night. This is my typical daily routine lately and it’s pathetic.

When I need to, I reflect on the times I’ve spent outside. It helps motivate me to go there again, to do it better next time. The best of those that come quickly to mind are below:

• Smoothing our way across Long Pond, in Milton, Vermont in a 1960’s aluminum Grumman canoe, with silent snow falling on the water all around us. Letterman and I found and fished this pond for smallmouth bass and northern pike, which were abundant through the 1990’s there. On good, overcast days with a slight breeze, every 5 casts or so was met with a bite, a strong pull and a crazy little fish in a crazy little pond. Canadian nudists used the pond as well.
• I needed to camp alone. I camped alone in a bunch of places, usually with water nearby. Once was at Sed’s pond near Castleton, Vermont. This small bass pond was only accessible by a small muddy trail from a dirt road, but it held a lot of small bass. I camped at the bottom of the trail and it rained hard on the tent. During the night, I had to get out, and dig a trench down the road and divert the water around my tent or I’d end up swimming with the fishes. Stayed there two nights and did not have much to worry about besides that.
• Belly-button deep in the rushing, cold water of the Rio Grande river in southern Colorado, I figured out how to catch brown trout. I was told by Jon Yousko exactly where to fish, near an abandoned VW Beetle beside the river. It was lightly snowing, I had fleece on under my waders. The guides would ice up every other cast, so I kept the rod under water most the time. Used a decent-sized bead head nymph and some weight to get down to hungry trout. Nicest trout and the most rewarding fishing experience I’ve ever had. I almost talked myself out of fishing that day.
• Kneeling below the black chairlift at Magic, 7:45 am, mid-winter 1990 or so. I had a freshly hand-tuned Burton M13 race board under my feet, connected to my legs by perfectly broken-in Koflach mountaineering boots secured to Burton variplate bindings. The trail had been freshly groomed and I was there first. The lift ran overhead and I began to drool under my neck-warmer. It was not hardpack, it was our boy Roy. Soft enough to leave a mark, hard enough to hold my big ass from sliding out, the trail’s fall-line was pitched to the left, offering bank after bank of screaming arcs on both edges and the smoothest, fastest snowboard turns I’d ever had. No one knows what that felt like to me, to move like that.
• Floating on my back, staring at the clouds moving across the sky, in the middle of the Quetico-Superior National Forest in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. It’s important to float in cold, clear lakes on your back, arms outstretched with your ears under water and with nothing visible by the sky. It’s kinda close to flying, like nature’s massage parlor and it’s almost the most relaxing thing to do as a human outside.

Barry Lopez is a writer that I respect for many reasons. He seamlessly blends detailed, perfect writing about the natural world with a respect and understanding of the role humans play in the world. I was introduced to Barry Lopez by mistake, by Jesse Loomis. I picked up “Arctic Dreams” by mistake from Jet’s bookshelf, and I’ve read 3 other books of his since. Arctic Dreams was a long read of small type, but it opened my eyes to the intense appreciation of the beauty of such a harsh, desolate landscape. It also helped me to realize how crucial the space around you is in determining the quality of your life in the world. Lopez understands the importance of landscape in the consciousness of people on earth, and he also understands the danger of the current disconnection with the world we live in.

Since moving to the west coast, it’s become clear that people out here move slower, and act mellower than people in the northeast, especially those in the general vicinity of New York City. I kinda think it’s because people out here feel like the space around them is larger, more expansive and allows for more freedom than people in the more crowded east. I can’t help but think about the ever-increasing stress levels of people who live in New York City itself, with it’s jammed concrete confines and ever-increasing threat of dirty bombs and such. Why would anyone move there today on purpose? Our short lives on earth should be about the freedom to move around outside, not unnatural restrictions, human stink and ever present fear. How can anyone in a city like NYC ever really feel like they are part of the local landscape that’s completely understandable? How can they feel at home?