The Odd Behavior of Tourists

A few weeks ago, I ran into a middle-aged woman who was floundering in thigh-high snow on a steep slope above Alberta Falls in Rocky Mountain National Park. Apparently when she and her son arrived at the sign that says “Alberta Falls“ and they didn’t see any waterfalls, they headed up a steep hillside, where no trail exists.  Apparently, being from Florida, it didn’t occur to her that all that snow might be covering the falls and so set out to look for the popular attraction, which the Park Service had cleverly hidden someplace else.

A bit farther down the trail, I found another curiosity: a bridge over a small creek (about 5 feet across) roped off with orange cones. I can only assume the ropes were meant to prevent people from jumping into the creek, which was obscured by snow. Park rangers must have had to rescue people enough times that they decided to take preventive measures. Maybe they also needed to add some signs:

Warning: Creek below. If you jump in, you might get wet, and you might get cold. Just so you know.

As has been widely reported, since the pandemic started more people have turned to the great outdoors, both for distraction and spiritual solace. These newbies apparently haven’t spent a lot of time in nature, because they seem easily confused.

Last month, some hikers on the Glacier Gorge trail apparently didn’t expect snow on the trail in March, Colorado’s snowiest month. I saw women wearing leggings and tennis shoes that would have been proper wear in downtown Denver but didn’t hold up on a snow-packed trail where a few inches off the trail you sink into deep snow. On a steep section of the trail, a bottleneck formed with people lined up, unsure how to navigate down the slippery, icy slope in their shoes that had no tread. Some  decided that sliding on their backsides was the easiest way down.

I just read an article about a rescue group in a remote part of Wyoming that is now getting 10 times the requests for rescues than it did a year ago—some from wilderness users who just got tired while hiking and wanted to be helped back to their cars. One Denver newspaper article last winter mentioned a woman walking on an avalanche-prone mountainside, dressed only in shorts and a tank-top (somehow, she came through unscathed). By not being prepared, some of these backcountry tourists are putting others in danger, like the rescue groups and rangers who must search for them, often in bad weather, and bring them back to civilization.

But there’s another danger: that too many people see the world through the lens of our screens—whether social media, TV, video games or something else—so the natural and artificial worlds blend into one. Nature becomes a commodity that can be plucked for our amusement rather than being a world unto itself. Last month, two tourists stopped me at Wild Basin to ask how to find the spectacular mountain views, someplace they could take photos to be admired on Instagram. Another time, two young men asked me where they could find elk, their sole reason for coming to the park.

I love the high mountains and the huge herds of elk, but the tourists’ consumerist attitude—I want an experience that I can record and post—leaves out any genuine interaction with nature, any appreciation of this complex world where nature exists on a different plane than the human one. If you’re not so intent on finding the falls or getting that prize photo, you might glimpse an amazing world: lichen thousands of years old, ouzel flying behind the waterfalls or tiny forget-me-nots that can only be seen by crouching on the tundra floor.   

Part of me hopes the pandemic tourists return to the human world opening up again: fitness clubs, shopping malls,  bars and restaurants. I would love to get rid of clogged parking lots, endless lines of hikers on the trail, and visitors who let their dogs chase the chipmunks.

But that’s not the world we live in anymore. I can only hope that those who came to take a selfie with a nearby elk leave with more than a picture. Maybe a taste of a different world than the human one, some small bit of silence and calm outside of the chaotic human world, a brief brush with animals who struggle to survive with grace and courage. Maybe they’ll even learn what snow is.

Comments

[Cheryl]

Seriously, where do they think water goes when it snows????

[shoney]

This is a lovely piece with beautiful photos. I have some sympathy for tourists who don't know much about being in nature. Decades ago I worked with in a literacy program for young adults, most of whom came from big cities or lived in places where it was unsafe to go outdoors. Most of these people understood cities in ways I never could, but sometimes were afraid of ducks or scared to walk down a trail. I've met people who lived in areas that were so dangerous that they were only allowed to go to school and home and not allowed to play outside. On the flip side I am often claustrophobic and terrified in cities, I can't orient myself, the entire world feels unfamiliar and scary. I alway am confused about the subway and have had people laugh at me. I try to understand cities so I can experience the delights I know exist there but it is very challenging for me.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Shoney, thanks for offering this alternative view of tourists. Like you, I'm more comfortable in nature than in cities and can appreciate that urban dwellers would be uncomfortable in nature. In the case of the tourists I saw, I think it's more their arrogance that appalls me. They don't make any effort to learn how to behave in nature. I want them to approach nature with amazement and curiosity, not just look for the best photo.

[Julene A Bair]

The pictures illustrating this piece are particularly spectacular this time. That first one of the girl in the summery blouse with her big complicated hair blowing in the wind as she takes a picture is particularly stunning. So is the one at the end of the two tiny human figures dwarfed by the mountain beyond them. In the past, no one dressed like that girl could have even gotten there. It's not that different when it's us. For anyone to get to RMNP they have to burn the remains of dinosaurs and other ancient life. In the hour it takes to drive from Denver into the mountains we burn the wealth bequeathed to us by past life - what? one thousand? one million? - times our weight in order to glide over the snow on skis or take snapshots.