“Our minds, late spread abroad through countless spheres and endless combinations of thought, now retrenched themselves behind this wall of flesh, eager to preserve its well-being only.” — Mary Shelley, from her novel The Last Man
I recently returned from a three week trip with my girlfriend Maggie through small towns and national parks in Utah and Arizona. We left before the lockdown began in California. What was fascinating to experience along the way were the different, and constantly shifting levels to which individuals and institutions manifested fear.
Fear, arguably THE most primal emotion, is a necessary one. It’s essential for keeping us safe, for helping us judge one moment to the next what is good for our well-being and what isn‘t. The problems start when people lose track of how much it’s driving their behavior. It can become full on dangerous when it unconsciously drives thinking. It tends to create its own self-justifying logic. Before you know it, outrageous behavior can suddenly seem absolutely reasonable.
When we arrived in the Grand Canyon March 19 the park had just officially closed. The general store was open, but there were no remaining services other than a few rangers and trail repair crews. Though I own a pass for all the national parks, it was nonetheless fun to go speeding through the park entrance booth each day. The hiking trails were open. Elk were feeding in the lawns surrounding the lodges where I imagine they ordinarily wouldn’t venture due to crowds. Foot and car traffic were far less than what they regularly would be, but were still not insubstantial. Park workers were allowed to remain in residence in their subsidized lodging, but were expected to find work elsewhere and depart after two weeks.
We had our last dining out experience that night in a Mexican restaurant in the little town of Tusayan where we were staying. The following night, when we ordered take out from the steakhouse across the street, three staff people effusively thanked Maggie when she picked up our order. Business was grounding down to zero and they were deeply grateful for ours.
In those first few days, I noticed a difference in the way people encountered us on the trail. Almost overnight it seemed people got the memo about six feet of distance. Suddenly, people seemed to flatten themselves against rock walls to avoid coming within range. Though we had a number of rich, enlivened conversations with hikers every day, that physical distancing remained the norm for the remainder of our travels. Parents with young children shepherded them to one side of the path whenever we passed. Their desire to shield them was palpable. But with everyone we shared a common bond, spoken or unspoken; it made great sense to us to be outdoors relishing the exquisiteness of nature.
Every day it seemed more hotels and restaurants closed. We made it as far east as Torrey, Utah and spent four lovely days in Capital Reef National Park — a stunning place I’d never heard of a month before. But it was getting impossible to go further east, or north or south. The town of Moab had “closed,” asking visitors to stay away. Arches and Canyonlands National Parks were closed, not even allowing day visitors access to trails. To the south, the ferry that might have taken us across Lake Powell was shut down and the Navajo Nation closed all services in and around Monument Valley. The same was true for Four Corners and Mesa Verde. Suddenly it seemed there was no place left to go but home.
By the time we reached the little town of Escalante on our return trip measures were becoming more drastic. The local grocer decided to refuse entry to any non-residents. We heard about this from our hotel clerk. She told us if we need anything from the store she’d get it for us. She then told us how the previous day when she was getting gas, she noticed an older man with a backpack weeping outside the store. He’d been hiking for two weeks and, though out of food, he’d been refused entry by the owner. He was unsure what to do, as he had planned to continue hiking for another two weeks through Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. After hearing his story, the clerk marched into the store and gave the owner a dressing down. He wasn’t moved. So she went back outside, got the hiker’s list, then went back in to purchase the supplies he needed.
What kind of a threat does a man who’s been hiking alone in the wilderness for two weeks represent? Minimal, I would say. Yet fear works its own logic. We can always, each of us, find some way, if we allow ourselves, to rationalize what to others will be judged as irrational, unkind, or even cruel behavior. It’s not that hard to get there. Need I mention toilet paper?
The town of Springdale, just outside Zion National Park where we spent three lovely days the week before, petitioned the National Park Service to close. With support from the governor, on April 3 it did. The state highway which runs through the park is now officially open only to local residents. Stopping at scenic pull offs along the road is prohibited.
I’m reminded of an old “Twilight Zone” episode. A group of neighbors, inexplicably faced with perpetual darkness one day when the sun doesn’t rise, band together to protect their block. When an outsider approaches out of the darkness, out of fear and a misplaced sense of self-protection, they kill him, only to realize afterward he was a neighbor from the next block. God help anyone in Springdale and Escalante who contracts the virus. I fear they may be tarred and feathered, along with the “outsiders” who are deemed the likely source.
By the time we reached St. George, Utah even the state parks were closed to non-residents. Officials were manning the gates at nearby Snow Canyon State Park, checking every car, so we turned around. We found some nearby trails in a county park; though officially closed to non-residents, it was unpatrolled.
I understand the rationale for closing parks to outsiders — the presumption is that if your community doesn’t yet have cases of the virus, or many, closing the doors to possible interaction with outsiders can slow the infection rate. Many of the small towns don’t have health clinics, and hospitals are a long way away. But I find this priority unpersuasive balanced against the health benefits from being in fresh air, sunshine and the outdoors. It is Springtime after all. And National Parks are the province of all of us, not just local residents. Reacquainting ourselves with the beauty and sustenance of Mother Nature seems all the more vital in this time.
How many people are reporting on the downsides of staying at home for long periods? In China, where the state-run media strictly suppresses unwelcome stories, there have been at least two known suicides of children (one pre-pubescent, one a teen) from the 76 day lockdown in Wuhan. In this country, the rates of domestic violence and child abuse are said to have risen dramatically but it’s difficult for reporters to gather stories from people on lockdown, assuming editors and publishers even request them. One can argue that these downsides are a small price to pay for saving more lives from infection. Perhaps. My concern is that no one is readily discussing the social implications of lockdown.