In hind cite...

Our family of four had the privilege to enjoy an eight-day backpacking trip last month. While on these annual adventures together over the past dozen years, we have combated injuries, dodged lightning bolts, been pelted by hail the size of golf balls, survived sunburn, endured hordes of mosquitoes, forded chest-deep rapids, trekked across near-vertical snowfields, witnessed trees crashing to the ground and boulders tumbling from peaks, shivered through snowstorms, and other uncomfortable and even death-defying situations.

But none of the above caused as much duress as an incident that occurred on this recent trip.

The wilderness is my church; I would never defile it. Leave No Trace ethics are my Bible; I have read and memorized every verse.

For 13 years, we have backpacked with our children – since they were four and five – and I have taught them how to care for and love the backcountry. They have never cut a switchback, so much as left a corner of a Clif bar wrapper behind, or given one morsel of food to a chipmunk or other creature, no matter how cute.

I like to think that when we leave the backcountry, we have done our part to make it better than it was. We have packed out other hikers’ trash – this trip we found three balloons at three separate pristine backcountry sites that we hauled home, as we do each trip.

We have fed starving hikers, clothed cold hikers, guided lost hikers, bandaged injured hikers, scolded ignorant hikers, and befriended some of the best, most interesting people on the planet.

So this is difficult to admit, but I must confess. During this recent trip, we received a citation from a backcountry ranger for “violating the terms” of our wilderness permit.

Here’s the story… We had a remote, albeit established campsite in mind where we planned to spend a couple of heavenly layover days. When we arrived in the area, there was a tent pitched at the site, but no people around.

We found another somewhat established site in the trees about 50 yards west of the camp. Just as we were ready to pitch our tents, I realized that we were just too close to the other campsite; I certainly wouldn’t have liked it if someone had camped that close to us (Leave No Trace Principle No. 7).

We picked up our packs and moved a few hundred yards downslope to an exposed, treeless, yet established gravel site (LNT Principle No. 2). That evening after dinner, as we were packing up our food for the night, we realized we had a smelly plastic bag of trash that wouldn’t fit in our bear canister.

We had intended to burn the worst of it the night before (LNT No. 1), but a thunderstorm had made us and the surroundings too wet to have a fire even though there were existing campfire rings. Besides, we had a bear-proof storage locker that night as well so we were able to stow everything.

Since our number-one priority in the wilderness is to never, ever let wildlife obtain our food (LNT Principle No. 6), we were concerned about this odorous collection. Had we been at our intended site, or even encroached and stayed in the adjacent area, we would have had a tree from which to hang it.

We were now at a place where “wood fires” are illegal. It said so on a sign along the trail about a mile back. We considered building a cache with rocks, but this is something we wanted to avoid (LNT Principle No. 4) and it wouldn’t mask the odor.

We looked at our permit rules and the main concern seems to be “campfires,” which we interpreted as a blazing fire lit for warmth and/or entertainment and entails scouring the landscape for fuel. Since we weren’t planning on singing “Kumbaya,” a dirt mound about 12 inches by six inches was prepared (LNT Principle No. 5) on which we put our paper waste – mainly TP (LNT Principle No. 3) and prepare-in-pouch dinner bags – and struck the fateful match.

Immediately upon seeing the smoke waft skyward, I saw we had caught the attention of our neighbors above us in the trees. Soon, a “plain clothes” ranger descended upon our campsite and was broadcasting the name of “John Elliott” over the radio to check for prior wants and warrants while writing the citation that has since set us back a couple of Ben Franklins.
John didn’t belabor his defense; I was in the tent when she arrived and decided to stay there and let John take the heat. We swallowed the citation along with our pride.

I’m not ready to admit we were wrong. I will, however, say that we may not be completely right.

We made a judgment call that was based on experience and rational thought. But we were too blatant for the ranger to ignore.

Even though the ranger performed her duties by telling us to pour a bucket of water on the fire, pick up the burnt material, and disperse the remnants, we would have done it anyway. We don’t burn plastic, don’t use foil, and always pick up any remains that may not have turned to complete ash even when burning in an established fire pit.

Ironically, Sequoia-Kings Canyon’s fire policies are inconsistent. The ranger was concerned about blackened rocks; on subsequent days we spotted lightning fires burning in some of the southern Sierra’s pristine high country that would be leaving behind plenty of scorched boulders, and we traipsed through a portion of the Atwell Grove where some ancient giant sequoias have been burned to death due to intentionally-ignited prescribed fires.

We do, however, understand why “campfire” regulations must be written. And we understand the frustrations of backcountry rangers because we have also seen how often those regulations are wantonly ignored.

I am in awe of the Sierra and all that lives and breathes there. Over the past two decades, I have been committed to teaching environmental consciousness to my children, feeling privileged to pass onto them a multi-generational legacy of a deep respect and stewardship for the spirit, the wonder, and the beauty of these fragile wild places.