Clarinne Kirk
Wilderness Ranger Fellow
Hitches 1-4
Frank Church and Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness Areas
On the morning of my first day working as a Wilderness Ranger Fellow, I had to take a swig of water after each bite of my breakfast in order to slip the food past the knot forming in my throat and into my stomach, which churned wildly with anxiety like a stormy ocean. With hands shaking as they clenched the wheel during my drive to the office, I felt paralyzed by the realization that I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Yet, even while realizing I knew very little about the summer that lay ahead, I figured I at least could predict the things I would learn: how to swing an ax, how to pull a saw, how to dig tread, how to become a stronger person. Now, writing this blog in late July, as temperatures lay in the 100s and smoke has nestled among Missoula’s mountains, I realize just how naive I was. While I have learned the art of the cross-cut, how to retread a trail, and how to brush a proper corridor, I have come to learn that the wilderness is an extensive teacher with lessons that go much further than how to work and strike at the question of how to be. From five hitches and many hours spent in a beautiful and sometimes brutal classroom, here’s what the wilderness has taught me so far this season.
Practice gratitude.
Sunrise during the final day of the training hitch along the Chamberlain Trail in the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness.
Each night before I would go to sleep, I would reflect on the day I just finished and the day ahead while listening to the birds chattering happily and the bugs hitting the fly of my tent with a consistent pitter-patter that sounded almost like rain. In these moments, sitting in my tent, feeling the warmth of the day linger yet cool, hearing the roar of the river harmonize with the birds and the insects, it is hard not to feel grateful. Despite the hard work, the bugs, the frustrations, the blood, sweat, and tears, the wilderness is always providing little moments of joy. While cross-cutting a particularly difficult tree on my first hitch and feeling my saw pinch yet again, I felt a wave of anger swelling inside me, threatening to crash down in a flood of rage and self-doubt. But then, I noticed a butterfly landing on the blooming Fireweed that covered the hills and I thought, “I am frustrated and angry, but even I must admit there is beauty in this moment.” For all the pain and anxiety we may feel in the wild, the medicine of the wilderness is much stronger. By the time I’m eating dinner on the first night of each hitch, I can feel this medicine easing its way through my sore muscles and into my soul. I feel it in the cool breeze against my sweat, in the nostalgic smell of sun-warmed earth, the feeling of jumping into a cold creek after a long, hot day of work. The wilderness provides so much and I have learned that when I stop to take note and give thanks for each small joy, the beautiful moments far outweigh the painful ones.
2. Don’t take it so personally.
The tree doesn’t have a vendetta against you. You are not weak. You are not an imposter. Your saw is just a little pinched. You just need to find a way to get unstuck.
3. Be proud of the mark we leave behind, but know that it will fade.
Hiking with the crosscut while clearing the South Fork Lolo Trail in the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness.
On my second full hitch in the Salmon-Challis National Forest, our main focus was fixing some major washouts, carving new tread into the ridge line, and creating curving turns out of the creek beds for future hikers to traverse. While bent over with my pulaski, the sun pounding on my back as I pulled soil away from the hillside, it occurred to me that we were quite literally shaping our surroundings. Over the course of the week, we changed the way the hillside looked, removing bushes, redirecting the trail, and altering where future hikers would interact with their surroundings. From this perspective, it is easy to feel like a master over the wilderness, a sculpture molding a limp pile of clay. But the wilderness is not an inanimate object for us to shape but an ever-growing, ever-changing entity, just as powerful in shaping her surroundings as we humans. Eventually, the trails we fixed will once again be washed away; the trails we cleared will again be covered with downed logs, returning the forest to its innate, wild self. While this thought can seemingly negate the importance of our work, it serves as a reminder of the reciprocal relationship we share with the natural world. We cannot rule over the wild, but simply carve a trail at a time, cherishing the wild world it brings us into and knowing that the wild world can also take it away. For isn’t it this powerful, everchanging characteristic that makes the wilderness all the more alluring?
4. Surrender to the discomfort, surrender to the wild.
A part of accepting the impermanence of our work is surrendering to the power of the forest. In all ways, the wilderness has taught me the art of surrendering– to the dirt, the heat, the wind, the bugs, the fatigue, the uncertainty– while realizing that this surrendering is the most natural thing a human can do. We think that asserting our power or control over the wild will temper our anxieties, momentarily clouding our powerlessness in the face of nature. In reality, acknowledging our limits and the expanse that lies beyond us makes me feel all the more secure. No matter where I go or what I do, even if the trail we dug on our second hitch fades into the tangled brush of the hillside, the Salmon River that runs beside it will continue its course. The thunderstorms will build behind the ridge, release, and pass. The trees will grow, burn, and fall. The wilderness will continue to speak and live on. It is better to surrender to this power than to fight it.
5. Lodgepole pines need fires to grow.
6. We have more in common than it seems.
Fellow Marlena & I crosscutting a log along the Bargamin Creek Trail.
On the final day of the training hitch, we jet-boated down the Salmon River from where we were camped to where we parked. While sitting on the back of the boat, watching the ridges zoom past and feeling the powerful churn of the river below us, I turned my face to meet the sun, which had just ascended above the ridge line, filling the chilly morning air with rays of warmth. As I lapped up the sun’s rays, I considered the universality of the joy of the sun on a cold face. It is the joy humans have felt for thousands of years. It is the joy that makes sunflowers turn in a field, compels dogs to sprawl out in a sunny patch of grass, and entices birds to land on a branch rich in sunlight. We are often told of our differences. We are told we cannot get along with those who look differently, who love differently, who vote differently. Not only are we told that we are separate from those humans different from us, we are told we are separate from nature entirely, falling into two distinct buckets: wild and civilized. Yet, despite these differences, isn’t it wonderful that we all–from every human in every city to every ant on every blade of grass–find delight, find life, in a star over 93 million miles away?
7. Everything in nature has its niche, you similarly need to find yours.
Crosscutting with crew lead Phoebe Mather along the Middle Fork of the Salmon River.
During my first few hitches, I was swept up in comparisons, trying my hardest to keep up, to prove myself as strong, as tough, as worthy of being part of the crew. When I’d fall behind during a hike, I’d force myself to pick up the pace, worried about slowing down the group. When I didn’t cut as many trees my crewmembers, I’d make a pact to myself that tomorrow I’d double down, work faster, work harder. Being young, being a woman, being new to trails, I always felt this pressure to prove that I belonged, to prove that I was just as strong, as hard-working as the 6’2 men or seasoned professionals. Soon though, I realized that I can’t lift the heaviest trees, I can’t hike the fastest, and no amount of my trying and willing myself to will change that. Shortly after accepting the blow of this devastating realization, I began to notice the complexity of the wild that surrounded me each day. Not every animal or plant is strong or fast, instead, each fills a unique niche, allowing the ecosystem to be diverse and resilient. Finding wisdom from the ecosystems around us, I realized we too could be stronger if we played to our individual strengths and filled our unique niches. My shoulders may not be able to carry the heaviest weight, but they can provide support for a tired crewmate. I may not be able to hike the fastest, but when I inevitably pack too much food, I can share my extra snacks with my crewmates, ensuring no one goes hungry. We need strong arms, we need fast legs, but we also need ears to listen, mouths to speak words of encouragement, and eyes to see the positive in each hardship. In these moments, I realized that kindness, positivity, and support for others, rather than my physical prowess, could be my strength, my contribution to the ecosystem. From that moment on, I pushed myself not to fill a niche I never could, but to play to my own strengths and be a rock my team could depend on. When I stopped comparing myself to others and competing in a niche I didn’t belong, I was truly able to flourish and, more importantly, so did my team.
Spokane, WA
Gonzaga University- Sociology & Journalism
Clarinne grew up in Portland, OR, where she spent her childhood hiking in the woods and camping along the coast. Clarinne loves hiking, running, backpacking, and finding any way to spend time outdoors. She is currently a student at Gonzaga University where she has been able to further her knowledge of the outdoors through working as a student trip leader. Clarinne has a passion for protecting the environment and is excited to learn more about wilderness preservation and be able to give back during her time as an SBFC Wilderness Ranger Fellow.
