This pieces explores the ways in which technology and social media have increased human exposure to wilderness settings, bringing into question the ways in which humans interact with nature as we strive to connect with the world around us.
A two-lane road hugs the magnificent cliffside of the Columbia River Gorge, where named and unnamed waterfalls trickle and tumble down in powerful torrents around every curve. I was trying to enjoy the sights while navigating, my phone delicately balanced on my knee. Google maps proved unnecessary as we rounded one last curve, suddenly face to face with a crowded parking lot and a sign labeled Multnomah Falls.
I had decided to visit the falls a few weeks earlier, the stress of winter quarter exams almost over, spring break sweet on the tip of my tongue. De-stressing from work I opened Instagram and began mindlessly scrolling. Images of food, friends, and a few too many corgis entered into view. My eyes lingered on a photo of a towering waterfall, drops indistinguishable from one another, the mass of water paused in free fall, as if holding its breath before plummeting toward the cool pool below. Camouflaged from the rugged cliffside lay a stone cold, yet beautiful bridge. It snuck out from a patch of dense woods, stretched across the waterfall, and disappeared back into the green hillside. The community of trees hid the path to and from the bridge, as if they wished to keep it a secret forever. Despite their attempt I was able to discern dark figures, no larger than ants, clustered on the bridge, no doubt enjoying the tantalizing view.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, longing for the freshness of the open space I knew existed beyond the staleness of my overly cluttered dorm room. I imaged the sensation of standing in that place, my mouth slightly agape, stomach knotting into somersaults as the water coursed under my feet and tumbled over the edge of the lower falls. My eyes opened slowly and my brow creased, a wave of familiarity washing over me.
This was not the first image of the towering beauty to surface on my Instagram feed. More intrigued than ever I pressed my thumb lightly to the screen, and scrolled up to above the photo where I read the words Multnomah Falls, Portland, Oregon. With a quick tap of my thumb my screen transformed. Suddenly I was faced with an interactive map, the location of the falls marked by a red pinpoint, along with TOP POSTS from other visitors who had chosen to tag their location.
Three more quick taps and I had directions pulled up from Stanford, California to Multnomah Falls, Oregon. The most direct driving route would only take 11 hours and 5 minutes, with nearly 600 miles on the I-5 N. My lips parted into a smile as an idea began to form. I zoomed into the map, scanning the largest cities and landmarks along the I-5 and the 101 to the west. Names like San Francisco, Napa, and Redwood National and State Parks caught my attention. I glanced up from my phone to the “To Do List” hanging above my desk and gently crossed off Spring Break Trip? Less than a month later I posted a photo to Instagram captioned “Cheesin’ with Mother Nature” as the cool mist of Multnomah Falls danced along my back.
Social media drove me to the wilderness. The act of seeing my friend’s image on Instagram triggered a series of events that ultimately resulted in my spring break road trip from Stanford University to Portland. As a millennial I can attest that social media is - and will undoubtedly continue to be - one of the main means by which we receive information and make decisions. Wilderness used to be remote and formidable, an untouched landscape where human presence was the exception, not the norm. Time undoes all exceptions, and brings with it the development of new technology, making the wilderness more and more accessible.
These technologies exist in the form of social media, apps, and websites that directly promote outdoor adventures and provide all the details necessary to plan a trip down to the most convenient bathroom stops. Extensive planning, poring over physical maps, ensuring the proper gear and equipment has been replaced with a few clicks on the computer, a route on the phone, and an overreliance on nearly universal cell surface. The sense of adventuring and finding new spaces is replaced with location-based services and Google maps that lead you right to the proper trailhead. The sense of getting lost in the wilderness is replaced by an overcrowding as it becomes more and more trendy to be outdoorsy. Undoubtedly social media, apps, and websites are changing not only the accessibility of nature, but also the ways in which humans interact with nature.
The role of these modern, omnipresent technologies in increasing accessibility to the wilderness is contentious due to a number of different stakeholders. The voice of park guests and users of the technology differs from that of park rangers, both of which stray from individuals who work for the media sites and apps themselves. Whose viewpoint holds the most weight? Who has the power to identify the way in which technology currently influences the wilderness experience and determine what the role of technology should be moving forward? These are loaded questions that cannot and should not be answered by one group of individuals. They need to be considered by each park guest, each park ranger, and each contributor to multimedia apps and websites. These are the groups directly interacting with technology and the wilderness, yet often their voices go unnoticed.
Today voices are muted by words on the CaliParks.org website or images on the National Parks iPhone app, slowly replacing park rangers and visitor centers. Intrigued by the possible impact of this phenomenon and seeking the perspective of a park ranger, I interviewed Kira Minehart, interpretive intern for the Grand Canyon National Park. Her number one concern with park guests was always safety. Located 90 minutes from the nearest grocery store she stated, “I wanted to make sure people were very prepared.” She expressed the delicate role of technology by sharing the idea that, “using technology to increase safety is really really important,” with the caveat that when social media sites or articles compromise safety “it’s not a good idea.” As an example she launched into a story about Ribbon Falls in the Grand Canyon National Park. A 16.8 mile round trip hike with a total elevation change of 9,042 feet, Kira did not want guests, inspired by a brief article online, attempting a day hike to the stunning location. Without sufficient gear, training, and nourishment the journey was dangerous.
As Kira was discussing the interplay of technology and safety, my mind wandered to an NBC article my mom had recently sent me “Man Dies After Jumping Into Rough Waters Near Sunset Cliffs” located less than a 20 minute drive from my home in San Diego. The shock of the headline was nearly as cold as the water that had stung my own body, not even two months prior to the date of the article shortly after my own leap of faith from Sunset Cliffs. My friends and I had heard about the cliff jumping spot from other locals and were lucky enough to have grown up in San Diego with a strong understanding of the ocean, tides, and depth. But for visitors, Yelp and other websites promote this activity, often failing to mention these varying conditions and the associated safety concerns.
Safety is not the only thing sacrificed in the face of technology. As a result of many injuries and incidents similar to the one in this article, caution tape and an impending permanent fence now mangle the scene. It is no longer possible to seek solace in views of sunset, for which the cliffs are so aptly named. My heart constricts with loss, as it dawns on me for the first time that the accessibility and actions of a few have managed to ruin the landscape for many.
My sorrow in reflected in Kira’s next point, which emphasizes the notion of stewardship for the landscape. One of Kira’s favorite destinations is a large slot canyon, hidden within the towering walls of the Grand Canyon itself. Kira’s acquaintance with this location stems from a conversation with a veteran park ranger, who kindly divulged its location when she expressed interest in journeys off the beaten path. This interaction highlights one of Kira’s most fundamental points; when you show a genuine interest, level of respect, and stewardship for a place, people are willing to share those locations with you. This, however, is very different from social media apps like Instagram and websites like the Outbound Collective, which broadcast to the general public for people who might not steward it the same way.
The increased accessibility that social media affords to wilderness does not just raise concerns about how the land will be treated, or more often mistreated, it also alters the way in which humans interact with nature. When I asked Kira to reflect on her experiences in wilderness she expressed the idea that, “what you find off the beaten path and make your own feels more special if you can make some connection to it, often because there are not a lot of people there.” Technology has inherently changed this, as National Geographic and the Associated Press highlight the extensive increase in National Park visitation since the birth of Instagram. Even as someone who cares deeply about the National Parks and has demonstrated commitment to their services by working for them, Kira’s eyes hinted at a deeper sadness as she reflected on what used to be pristine and free to visit being slowly overrun by guests and permits, limiting individual freedom to explore and experience a less populated wilderness. “Something about it makes my heart sad,” she told me. Talking to Kira caused me to reflect not only on my changing relationship with nature, but the ways in which technology may affect my kids and grandkids. What notion of nature will they know if everything is so well documented that there is nothing left to explore?
Exploration is made easy by people like Jake Young, who write and publish for the Outbound Collective. The Outbound Collective, a website devoted to stories related to the wilderness and wilderness exploration. One of the main features of the Outbound Collective is the “adventures” tab. Each “adventure” contains photos, a brief description of the excursion, and often an even briefer packing list. Between these “adventures” or a friend’s Instagram post, it is easy for individuals to route themselves to the nearest trailhead with very little planning. This inevitably raises concerns for park workers like Kira who worry about the safety of guests. When I broached this topic with Jake he responded, “people will always do dumb shit.” Jake is largely of the opinion that it is the responsibility of park guests and visitors to do their research ahead of time, even if the inspiration for their trip is found on social media or websites. Ultimately Jake believes people should learn their lessons, meaning it is not the fault of technology if visitors find themselves in sticky situations. This viewpoint on the role of technology and safety is in rather stark contrast with Kira who worked in the parks, because ultimately Kira is responsible for park guest safety, while Jake’s job is simply to provide satisfactory content to the Outbound Collective.
But what about the users of technology themselves? How should we be viewing technology and its relationship with safety? I believe the burden is twofold. Being a park guest and choosing to embark on a journey has responsibilities. Technology should not negate these. Nevertheless, it’s well within the capabilities of multimedia apps and websites to include safety information when posting about outdoor adventures.
Safety concerns aside, Jake shares Kira’s worry and sadness that technology may result in damage to natural settings, as we “love our parks to death.” In fact this belief directly contributes to what content Jake chooses to document versus omit from his work for the Outbound Collective. When I asked him where he draws the line in terms of what he feels comfortable sharing and posting, he namely pointed at the already prevalent popularity of a sight. He gave the example of Alamere Falls, a rare waterfall that flows directly into the ocean (tidefall), located in Point Reyes National Seashore. If you Google Alamere Falls Jake’s piece for the Outbound Collective will be the first thing that pops up. His expression was guiltless as he explained that prior to his article there were many websites ranging from NPS.gov to Yelp providing information about the site and broadcasting its popularity. Therefore, the addition of his article was nothing more than the cherry on top. In addition to the already prevalent popularity, Jake also had local knowledge of the site and knew it was able to withstand increased visitors with little to no harm.
Not all trails or sites are built for high capacity visitation, however. On the opposite end of the spectrum from Alamere Falls represents Kira’s beloved, yet elusive slot canyon, which Jake has also been lucky enough to visit. Jake, like Kira, expressed his profound admiration for the place, heaving a deep sigh as he uttered the singular word “permit.” Permits means restrictions and regulations, monetary costs to visit, and limited numbers of guests per day. He stated that he would never write an article for the Outbound Collective about this beautiful destination for fear of the flock. Where technology and resulting accessibility could have a significant impact on the place itself is where Jake chooses to draw the line. Some individuals may find this selfish. What right does Jake have to know about this elusive slot canyon, but not you or I? Jake, however, is anything but selfish. One of his first sentences in his interview with me was, “I really enjoy helping people go enjoy the outdoors.” Nonetheless there is a large difference in trying to keep a location a secret and blasting out the location to the public via the omnipresent internet. Jake desires no secrets, candidly discussing some of his most private and beloved spots, happy to divulge locations stating, “If someone asked me in person, for sure.”
I feel this way about some of my favorite spots in San Diego. Having grown up there I’ve accumulated a fair number of places either from friends or exploring on my own, that I can go to anytime to escape the increasing tourists. I love taking friends to these places when they visit, yet I’ve never once tagged their location on my Instagram posts.
This notion of spreading location by word of mouth rather than the internet comes back to the question of stewardship and respect for the land. Technology inherently jeopardizes this respect as there are people simply utilizing technology for their own good, failing to preserve the beauty of the wilderness. When I asked Jake if he was one of those people, utilizing photography and writing to gain kickback, sponsorships, monetary benefit, and publicity through his work for the Outbound Collective he became hesitant. “I feel very fortunate that I grew up in the outdoors before all this happened so I have an innate understanding of how to protect nature.” By this Jake means the rise in technology and resulting accessibility to the wilderness. However, now the opposite is occurring. People are getting excited about the wilderness via a device, rather than in person, “so they aren’t aware of how to protect it.”
His comment left me wondering about the role of technology in educating individuals. If the influence of technology continues to increase at what point does an inherent responsibility emerge and fall on apps and websites to use their power and educate individuals about conservation? For example the Leave No Trace principle outlines ways in which park guests can minimize their human impact on a natural setting in a number of ways, such as camping on durable surfaces, packing in what you pack out (this specifically relates to leaving behind no trash), and proper sanitation and bathroom tips. Through my experience with the Outbound Collective I have actually been impressed because every article concludes with a textbox that states “Please respect the places you find on the Outbound” and includes a statement about Leave No Trace Principles and a link to learn more. Jake doesn’t share my admiration. In order to truly implement these principles Jake believes that one needs to learn them in a natural setting. Optional links are rarely viewed and wilderness continues to be abused.
The protection argument is one that runs strong and deep throughout the outdoor community. One voice insists that increased accessibility to the wilderness will only result in more degradation of nature as uneducated park guests litter and trample off the beaten path, pushing parks and natural spaces beyond their capacity. Others highlight the value of more people experiencing nature as it has been widely established that the only places that are protected are those places that have a voice. I was torn between the two viewpoints until I talked to Jake. In one swift comment he steadied my swaying. “The most unfortunate thing is that yes I want more voices protecting our parks, but its not fairly correlated.” Clearly I must have looked puzzled as he continued to explain the notion that more and more visitors experience the wonder of our National Parks each year, but their money and their voices hardly ever reverberate within the high walls of the Grand Canyon and never make it to the gushing waterfalls of Yosemite. “Hoards and hoards of people descend and cause damage, but their power is pretty weak to actually protect it.”
Jake’s commentary relates to a paper published in the PLOS ONE journal titled “The Impact of Nature Experience on Willingness to Support Conservation.” The research of Zaradic, Pergams, and Kareiva analyzed the “relationship between nature participation and future conservation support” noting, “that all nature participation is not equal in terms of generating support for conservation, and that to the extent that conservation needs to broaden its support base, there is a need to understand what type of nature recreation creates the strongest commitment to conservation.” They found contributions are positively correlated with per capita backpacking and hiking 11–12 years earlier, but are negatively correlated with less elite outdoor activities, such as public lands visitation or fishing. This lag time associated with backpacking and hiking relates to the idea that most people backpack when they are young, and donate 11-12 years later once they are older with a steady income. The negative correlation associated with public lands visitation is partially dependent upon the income gap; viewing public lands is much less costly than backpacking.
This negative correlation is worrisome, as social media and websites today are increasing public lands visitation, but not necessarily increasing backpacking and hiking. Kira provided me with the stat that 60% of visitors to the Grand Canyon National Park spend less than an hour in the park, stopping at the 3 main pictures spots before leaving again. Therefore Jake’s fear that the increased accessibility to nature does not necessarily correlate with increased monetary support appears to be well founded.
Ultimately the explosion of visitors to National Parks and wilderness settings again brings into question the ways in which technology can potentially lead to the degradation of wilderness. But what about the ways technology contributes to the alteration of the human experience in wilderness? When I questioned Jake if working for the Outbound Collective changed the way in which he viewed and interacted with nature his answer was complicated. Working for the Outbound Collective encouraged him to visit sites he’d never had the chance to see before, increasing his repertoire of wilderness experiences. His camera and relationship with the social media site, however, has never dominated his trips. He stated, “If I have my camera great, if not I don’t dwell on it” expressing the notion that his fundamental enjoyment of nature does not come from snapping photos and sharing them online, but instead from childhood where he explored new terrain sans technology, diving into nature simply because of desire and not because his friends on Instagram had shared an outdoorsy photo.
So what does this mean for technology and the role it plays in increasing accessibility to the wilderness? What do we have to learn from Kira and Jake’s stories? What can I learn from my own story?
Currently we live in a time where technology poises a crux. As a society we have much to gain but also much to lose from the way in which we utilize social media, apps, and websites. Undoubtedly these technologies make life easier in many ways. They provide unbounded information and inspiration for outdoor adventures. But while they provide the inspiration, they may not provide the proper motivation. Technology is nothing but a tool, and how we, as users of that tool, implement it is what is truly important. Technology cannot and should not be the means to end. Rather it should be the means to a beginning.
After seeing my friend’s image on Instagram and planning my spring break trip I thought my ultimate destination was Multnomah Falls. I longed to see with my own eyes what had shone so brightly from the fluorescence of my iPhone screen. The anticipation rose as we rounded one last curve and were suddenly faced by a crowded parking lot. Nuzzled in a few too many layers I stepped outside into the late morning, a dreary gray fighting with the powerful rays of sunshine desperately trying to break through. Right, left, right, left. My feat bounded through the parking lot, my eyes darting to cars pulling in and out. Under a tunnel and over a small footbridge and suddenly there it was, 620 feet of underwhelming glory. My fluttering heart sank, brow furrowed, eyes scanning the scene: families, friends, lovers, dogs on leashes, dogs that should have been on leashes, laughter, smiles, iPhone after iPhone, after iPhone. Backs instead of fronts facing the waterfall, views construed through the lens of a camera. I instinctively reached for my phone. It felt only right to document the moment, to do what everyone else was doing.
And I did. And I posted a picture because that is what I expected people wanted to see. What I kept hidden, private on my phone, was the next 3 hours, 6 miles, and 7 waterfalls. The most stunning visual hike of my life started a mere 200 feet from the touristy viewing platform of Multnomah Falls, begging to be explored. The hike revealed rivers of cascading water, intricately dancing and tumbling over rocks and fallen trees as if in a hurry to get down the hillside. Patches of half frozen snow and slippery, decaying planks made my heart race with each teetering step. The depths of the hillside hid the people, the dogs, and the iPhones that Multnomah Falls put so prominently on display.
The terrain and views of the hike were nothing like I ever imagined that day a few weeks earlier, when I sat in my overly cluttered dorm room and planned my spring break trip after mindlessly scrolling through Instagram. Yet the stale air and clutter managed to follow me to Multnomah Falls. The crowds of people piled up just as my dirty laundry always did, and the stale air was only replaced with a fresh crisp breeze once I turned my back and strode away from the falls, away from the image that had beckoned me from my iPhone screen.
While it may be true that without Instagram I never would have seen Multnomah Falls, in a way I already had. I had seen it construed through the lens of a camera- edited, brightened, sharpened. Technology can never replace the true sensation of witnessing powerful torrents of water dive over a cliffside, but it can mute it, dull it, to the point where everything inherently extraordinary about the scene feels common, simply ordinary. This power of technology to strip the awe and wonder of seeing something magnificent for the first time is terrifying. Luckily the grasp of technology has not yet seized all that is wild. There is still land to be explored, and beauty to behold, sometimes as close as 200 feet away.
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