The Wilds of Baja.
“Wilderness is not a luxury but a necessity of the human spirit.” — Edward Abbey
A little over a year ago, Oregon lost a true, original, environmental hero. I honestly didn’t know Tim Lillebo that well, but his death struck me a stark reminder that wild places are our keystone to a good life.
Tim worked for Oregon Wild, an organization that protects wildlands, wildlife and waters in Oregon. But it really wasn’t what he did for work that I grew to love. It was his crazy, rugged style. He was a modern day John Muir, with unbridled passion for wild places, mountains, rivers, animals and wild thinking.
I knew Tim for about four years, when I worked for another environmental non-profit organization. His Oregon Wild office, which consisted of a complete firetrap of piles of paper and maps, was downstairs. I’d often find him in the parking area out back, hunched over a huge Forest Service fire map on the hood of his truck, cigar poking out of his mouth. He carried this giant Rolodex that was the size of a small melon, with no room for even one more card.
When I eventually quit my job and told him I was traveling to Indonesia on a surf trip, he pulled me away from my desk, grabbed a 30 year old dog-eared world atlas and we went outside to the hood of his truck. He then proceeded to name off tiny unknown Indonesian islands that were said to house some of the most wild and bio diverse forests on the planet. Somehow, this bearded, cigar smoking, Eastern Oregon ex-logger knew all about them. He also asked if I was going to get barreled, with a big smile and a twinkle in his eye.
When I finally reached my dream of Indonesia, I was stunned, not only by the over-the-top friendliness of the locals, but by the challenge it was to find solitude. People were everywhere. Even when we took our motorbike far off the main road onto narrow single track paths to deserted beaches in Sumatra—someone was always there with a “Hello Mister! Where you go?” Palm plantations were actively replacing jungle. I surfed with large and small bits of trash, floating amongst the tropical reef below me.
It hit me hard—the ability to leave the civilized world for one of wildness is a treasure to be saved.
We must work hard to save the bits and pieces of mountains and forests and rivers and coastlines in which we can find solitude and grace from our everyday lives. And we must seek and get to know those wild places on this planet, for it really is our salvation. We need to make ourselves go far, far away at times to lose ourselves and feel vulnerable again in the world. It’s time to feel small again and wild places can do that.
When I moved to mountains, forests and deserts of Central Oregon, I sought out a community of people who loved the outdoors. We were crazy and stupid at times. We hiked, climbed, explored and did silly things in the woods like sleep in snow caves and swing from rope swings in the trees. Getting lost in the woods was an adventurous playtime.
Have we lost that joy of exploring and getting lost, spending nights wet and cold and maybe even a little scared? (Sorry, Mom.) Where did it go? Now we wear computers, buy gear fit for astronauts, enroll our kids on race teams and calibrate our heart rate monitors when we go outside. We seem to have lost that special feeling of adventure and immersion into the wildness that can often be found steps from our back yard.
I challenge you to get out there and find a wild place. Go nowhere, on no trail, no map, and keep it quiet. Don’t post it to Twitter. Turn off your GPS. No one gives a shit about Strava. No one cares, especially not the soil under your feet or the trees that tower over you. Swim in the ocean by yourself. Surf that shitty wave that everyone turns down for the perfect point break. Float a stretch of river that no one knows. Climb that rock pile that you’ve always looked at from the safety of the trail. Hide yourself in the tall grass of a meadow at dawn.
Drink in the empty spaces and look up to see how the earth and sky is sewn together by a thin golden thread. Blur the lines on the map and squint your eyes until you can’t see the signs on the road. It’s good for you. You’ll survive—and everything will be better in the end. As Tim would say with a groovy grin, “All right, man. All right.”
