So it’s obviously been a long while—no doubt, too long—but I’ve been inspired (and peer pressured!) to write another blog. Here goes nothing…
Two weeks ago, I trekked to Wisconsin for work. “What in the world is in Wisconsin,” you ask?! Ya, I asked that, too. Initially, people responded with “the Packers,” “cheese curds,” and “more lakes than Minnesota!” But I’m here to tell you—there’s far more than that (although the cheese is really delicious…).
For one thing, the Wisconsin landscape is wildly beautiful—far more trees than I ever expected to see (not really sure what I was expecting to see, to be honest). No more than twenty minutes outside Madison, the scene turns bucolic, picturesque, and simply breathtaking—a scene seemingly straight from some inspired impressionist’s canvas.
Yet perhaps the most interesting destination in the Baraboo region of Wisconsin, at least for the conservation-minded person, is nestled just off the banks of the Wisconsin River. It’s just a small shack, barely standing and certainly not your typical vacation destination, but it represents something much more significant and was once the weekend getaway for Aldo Leopold and family.
Aldo Leopold, often termed the father of modern day conservation, was born in Burlington, Iowa in 1887. After an early life highlighted by outdoor adventures, Leopold later attended the Yale School of Forestry to focus his studies. He spent his early career working for the Forest Service in New Mexico and Arizona—an experience that ultimately shaped his outlook on the natural world and inspired him to be a leader in conservation. He eventually ended up in Madison, Wisconsin as a professor at the University of Wisconsin where he happily settled with his wife and five children.
Told from his daughter Nina Leopold Bradley’s perspective, Leopold came home one cold, winter night, glowing with a warmth of some unknown excitement. In the midst of the infamous Dust Bowl, when the land in the plains and Midwest was choking for life, Aldo Leopold saw potential where no one else did. “I have just bought the perfect vacation home!” he exclaimed. “You’re going to love it!”
Happily anxious, his family piled into the car and headed north to their new vacation destination. A few miles from the property, the ever increasing snowpack forced the Leopolds to desert the unwilling automobile and trudge the rest of the way on foot. Hours of an arduous and arctic hike led them to dilapidated fence, a snowy wasteland, and a ramshackle chicken coop—complete with a frozen mound of manure.
ttttttttttttttttttttttttttWhat the Leopolds saw in 1936
It took the family a little longer to see the same potential Aldo Leopold saw, but perhaps not surprisingly, they too laughed off naysayers and spent nearly every weekend working the land and bringing it back to life. The entire Leopold family worked to plant hundreds of trees throughout the entire property—setting aside parcels for natural field and meadow regeneration. Although their neighbors doomed the Leopolds to failure, the trees grew, the shrubs blossomed, and the wildlife returned.
There is one tree in particular—one tree that truly represents the dedication and spirit of this determined and inspirational family. There is a large white pine, just behind the family’s humble shack, that was planted in 1936 by Nina and her siblings. Today, the tree is massive—it towers above the shack, like a pillar of faith. The Leopolds weren’t crazy. The land can heal. And forests can return the favor of restoration by providing many public benefits such as clean air, clean water, and wildlife habitat.
So for many conservationists, visiting the Leopold shack is like a pilgrimage to Mecca. Here is where the genius mind wrote A Sand County Almanac and introduced for us a now entrenched land ethic:
“This sounds simple: do we not already sing our love for and obligation to the land of the free and the home of the brave? Yes, but just what and whom do we love? Certainly not the soil, which we are sending helter-skelter down river. Certainly not the waters, which we assume have no function except to turn turbines, float barges, and carry off sewage. Certainly not the plants, of which we exterminate whole communities without batting an eye. Certainly not the animals, of which we have already extirpated many of the largest and most beautiful species. A land ethic of course cannot prevent the alteration, management, and use of these ‘resources,’ but it does affirm their right to continued existence, and, at least in spots, their continued existence in a natural state. In short, a land ethic changes the role of Homo sapiens from conqueror of the land-community to plain member and citizen of it. It implies respect for his fellow-members, and also respect for the community as such (pg 243-244)."
But for me, the most powerful moment of the visit, the most meaningful sight, is not the shack itself, but the stoic tree that stands, less famously, behind the rustic abode (pictured at the top of the post). The tree is a monument in and of itself, testifying that even little hands can make a big difference, and just a little bit of faith and determination can go a long way. I’m certain that, today, Leopold would be more proud of his magnificent white pine that his crumbling little shack.
