In the late ’60s and early ’70s, I was a wilderness ranger in Central Idaho, and spent several summers in the Boulder and White Cloud ranges, inventorying the area for possible recreational use. What I discovered in the course exploring the drainages of the two ranges was that the area is essentially a desert, fragile and harsh. In its high circs, I would discover my own footprints, a year later, where they had come down on small bits of moss or grass or sedge. The imprints of my soles were still sharp in dried mud. Often enough, the plants I had stepped on were dead.

My reports to my superiors in these years were that the Boulders and White Clouds should not be developed for recreation unless they were ready to see that recreation completely transform the area. It was impossible to visit the area without leaving some trace, and the impact on advertised sites above 8,000 feet would essentially destroy what was advertised. Lakes in the Boulders and White Clouds were both rare and typically a thousand feet higher than lakes in the Sawtooths. There was less water and less of a growing season. Neither place was a good place to put bunches of people, whether they were on their feet or on horses or on motorcycles.

By the late 20th century, because of experience in the field, there was a growing awareness among Forest Service land managers that protecting the wild did not necessarily mean designating it as Wilderness. The beautiful language of the 1964 Wilderness Act promoted values that none of us disagreed with. But the experience of many of us in charge of protecting those values made us suspicious of “Wilderness” in the same way we were suspicious of national parks. Giving national status to a wild area wasn’t doing it a favor.

For me, the day-to-day police actions that I engaged in showed yet another disparity between the language of the Wilderness Act and the reality on the ground. I wrote more tickets in the Sawtooths than in the White Clouds or Boulders, because there were more people and many more rules. The Tragedy of the Commons came to mind when the popular campsites at Sawtooth Lake became churned-up ashpits. I almost became convinced, like Garret Hardin, of the unpleasant necessity of introducing visiting permits, charging fees, restricting visitors to trails and designated campsites or boardwalks, or reducing world population to a point where these areas weren’t deeply harmed by the presence of humans.

But the grim authoritarian joy behind Hardin’s solutions was something I lacked. I never enjoyed writing tickets to the 14-year olds who had ridden motorcycles beyond the wilderness line or the 25-year-old mothers who had left a disposable diaper in lakeshore bushes. My lack of enthusiasm did not matter to the many people who saw my uniform and demanded police action:

“They’re cutting switchbacks up there.”

“They’re cutting branches off a green tree.”

“They’re riding their horses in the lake.”

“They’re in our favorite campsite.”

“They stole the beer we put in the creek.”

“They’re shooting guns.”

“They’re rolling rocks.”

“They’re drunk.”

“They’re shitting on the trail.”