On the Loose, by  Renny and Terry Russell was "not for the Sierra Club" advisors said. But it was. One million copies sold. The club let it go.

The Mountaineers won't, and no young person should dare to. Glen Canyon and I agree. So does Renny. So would Terry.

--DRB

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Remember thy creator in yhe days of thy youth.
Rise free from care before the dawn,  and seek adventures. Let the noon find you by other lakes, and the night overtake thee everywhere at home. There are no larger fields than these, no worthier games than may here be played . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grow wild according to thy nature,
like these sedges and brakes,
which will never become English hay.
Let the thunder rumble;  what if it threaten
to ruin the farmer's crops?  
that is not it's errand to thee.  
Take shelter under the cloud,
while they flee to carts and sheds.
Let not to get  a living by thy trade,  
but by thy sport.  
Enjoy the land but own it not .

                                                   --Thoreau

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                  Man always kills the things he loves,
                  and so we pioneers
                  have killed our wilderness.

                         --Aldo Leopold

 

 

 

"We hereby demand more Jobs!   We hereby demand more Power! Let it go on record right here and now that we hereby pledge to Tame This Treacherous Torrent!
                                    (applause)
We hereby demand more Recreation!  We hereby demand more Reclamation! We hereby demand more  ECONOMIC GROWTH! We hereby demand more  . . . PROGRESS!!"
                            (thuderous applause)

Spin the wheels faster.                                                                  Hum whirl flash rumble hammer revolve explode.

Grease the gears with outboard oil. Grease the gears with the fat of beaver who aren't any use. Grease the gears with the blood of deer who aren't any use. Grease the gears with dissolving cottonwoods and the sickly sweet perfume they wear when they drown. Grease the gears with the stale slime on the shore as the banks fall over and as the grass and the moss and the brush and willows and reeds and seeds and pods sink underwater. Grease the gears with my and your blood and the blood of everyone who floated down and lost himself in the side canyons and on the riffles and sand bars and left part of himself on the walls. We are all under water now, and drowned.

We burst the ranks of the walking dead                      
as the killer goes unscathed.

                            

Adventure is not in the guidebook, 
Beauty is not 0n the Map.
Seek and ye shall find. 

             

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

             At the last hour of the planting season, the seeds of a universal sanity are sown.

I look at a redwood and don't see board feet. I look at a river and don't see killowatt hours. I look at a lake and don't see an aquaduct. I look at a marsh and don't see more rotting surplus wheat. I look at a gorge and don't see a damsite. I look at a meadow and don't see real estate. I look at an Egret and I don't see an absurd feathery hat.

The early settlers cluck and shake their heads, but the earliest settlers are glad. 

                                                          

 

 

                                                          --TERRY RUSSELL

NEXT-->      

[Photograph: Richard Norgaard]