Ours

In 1851 the Mariposa Battalion entered into the Yosemite Valley in pursuit of a large band of Ahwaneechee Indian raiders and as they reached an overlook what they saw filled them with wonder.  The valley was laid out before them with high mountains all around and a magnificent waterfall cascading down a great rock face.  The battalion doctor Lafayette Bunnell called it “Yo-sem-ity.”  In 1855 James Hutchings and Thomas Ayres along with two others traveled to Yosemite.  They were considered the valley’s first tourists.  When Hutchings returned from Yosemite he wrote an article for the Mariposa Gazette in which he described the group’s first impressions of Yosemite.  “We were almost speechless with wondering admiration,” he said, “at its wild and sublime grandeur.”  As the stories of Yosemite spread across the country, many people came to see it.  However, with exploration came settlement:  hotels, bridges, and roads were being built in Yosemite.  In 1863, interested to see Yosemite for himself, landscape architect Frederick Law Olmstead ventured to the valley.  He was troubled by what he saw and he turned to Senator John Conness of California and convinced him to take a park bill into the U.S. Senate.  So, on June 30, 1864, as Abraham Lincoln sat down to sign the Revenue Act and various other bills he also signed the Yosemite Land Grant, never suspecting that it would begin a park revolution that would last for years to come.

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The valley was laid out all around us, a great flat plain rimmed with hazy mountains.  I'd brought a whole bag of things to do but somehow I ended up with my face to the window, like always.  I squinted into the distance and a ball of excitement did a little jig in my stomach.  Could that be it?  I noted the color, the gentle sloping curves.  "I think that's it!" I said, pointing through the glass.  Everyone looked and speculated.  You could feel the anticipation filling the van up and nearly drowning us.  Down the Chinese writing road there was a sign that confirmed it.

Up close they made it feel like you didn't belong.  The dunes curved up from the valley floor to meet the mountains in golden waves.  It was a desert where a desert shouldn't be.

We took off our shoes and waded across the creek trickling with snow melt, feeling our feet numb up with every step.  Up the slopes we went, barefooted and in hoodies.  Shoes felt pointless.  We zigzagged up sandy ridges like stranded wanderers without a path, and yet we were content.  As we began to tire we stopped and turned to face the valley and the mountains, all green and brown.  Inhale, exhale.  We felt the wind pushing the sand up the backs of our shirts.  We giggled.

It was my first national park.

(Great Sand Dunes National Park and Preserve)

Those of you who know me very well know that I am in love with the national parks (hiking and mountains and being outside being three of my favorite things).  It started in high school as I was doing research for my graduation road trip, and really kicked in when I saw The National Parks: America's Best Idea.  The Ken Burns documentary came on every Sunday night for about five weeks, and I never missed it.  It chronicled the story of the national parks from the origins in the nineteenth century to the present.  I devoured every episode.  John Muir became one of my favorite people, and I learned to love Lincoln even more.

The beginning of this post is a short essay I wrote for a history class at my community college about the origins of the national parks.  Though Yellowstone became the very first national park in 1872, Yosemite was the first time land had been set aside in such a way.  It was the idea of a national park that was such a revolutionary concept.  In Europe the most beautiful places were owned by the wealthy and the prestigious, but the idea of preserving land for everyone, the idea of the people collectively owning these places, started with Yosemite.

That's the reason I find this so strange:

Imagine you're driving down your street.  You come to your driveway and there's someone standing there and they won't let you pass.  You roll down your window.

"What are you doing?  Could you move?  I need to get into my driveway," you say.

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you on the property," the person says.

"Why not?" you ask.

"Because the bank you use just got blown up by aliens from Jupiter," the person says.

"But it's my property, what does that have to do with you keeping me out?"

The person is silent.

"So I can't go on my own property?" You ask.

"No," the person says.


The whole idea behind the national parks was that being an American made you a joint owner of some of the most beautiful places in the country.  Those sand dunes I climbed belong to me, and they belong to you too, so the fact that we're not allowed in the national parks because a bunch of grown men are acting like kindergarteners is kind of preposterous.  So if I were anywhere near a national park or monument right now, I wouldn't let a barricade stop me.  I'd keep right on going.

Okay, I'm done venting.