Fourteen years ago, I convinced a man I was dating to join me for a long weekend to pull spotted knapweed in The Bob. We were volunteering with the Bob Marshall Wilderness Foundation (BMWF) and for our reward of ridding Castle Lake of noxious weeds, the BMWF would coordinate a float trip with Glacier Raft on the upper Middle Fork of the Flathead River. Plus, I told my new boyfriend, the organization would provide our food. It would be fun. The itinerary was simple: hike in, pull weeds, float out.
This September, that same man and I celebrate 12 years of marriage, and the Bob Marshall Wilderness Complex marks its diamond jubilee anniversary as part of the Wilderness Act, preserving its 1.5 million acres as federally designated wilderness. I don’t think Cole minded pulling weeds as much as he balked at paddling an inflatable kayak through the Middle Fork’s rapids, and I should have known that my alpinist paramour wasn’t as comfortable on moving water compared to the steep skis slopes where we had first met.
Yet over the years of our relationship, I’ve convinced Cole to return to the Bob for more trail work, the kind that involved Pulaskis and crosscut saws instead of hand-pulling knapweed. Although he still prefers high peaks to rivers, we’ve acquired a raft, and he indulges my river-rat nature. The outdoors is a defining element in our relationship and accessing public lands like Glacier National Park and The Bob are critical places to us and our family.
In 1964 President Lyndon B. Johnson signed into law the National Wilderness Preservation System, a national network of federally designated wilderness areas, including the Bob Marshall Complex. Also known as the Wilderness Act, the preservation and protection of America’s wild places resulted from tireless advocacy by citizens who understood that this nation needed to secure lands in their “natural condition” and preserve them for future generations. Bob Marshall himself was a key figure in the movement as well as Howard Zahniser. The act protected 54 areas from coast to coast and included iconic places like the Gila in New Mexico and California’s Ansel Adams Wilderness area. The key word in the law is “untrammeled” which means places like The Bob or Minnesota’s Boundary Waters will remain untouched by roads, motors, or mechanizations of human industry. Unlike visitor centers and rest areas at Glacier National Park, there are no amenities within the boundaries of Wilderness. No chain saws, either.
Thanks to acts of Congress throughout the decades, 111 million acres of public lands are now secured as Wilderness designations.
I find that in places like the Bob, whether I’m in that vast landscape on a trail or recalling memories of clearing trail with a crosscut saw, Wilderness leaves an impression on my heart like no other landscape. Knowing that our nation has preserved its natural heritage for environmental, cultural, and spiritual reasons is remarkable. I think a lot about how Congress tried to define “Wilderness” and its character to make these protections into enforceable law and I keep coming back to “untrammeled.” To trammel something is to deprive or restrict it of freedom. I love that people recognized that nature itself was an object worth granting its very own freedoms. A place that didn’t need to be dominated by humans. It can express itself freely. I could also add that humans not only need untrammeled landscapes but also untrammeled relationships.
I’m grateful that I’ve located both.
Maggie Doherty is a writer and book reviewer who lives in Kalispell with her family.