Holland Lake and other nearby public campgrounds maintained by the U.S. Forest Service have bear-resistant trash containers and food storage boxes that campers are required to use. If you're camping in the backcountry you should always hang food and other animal attractants 10 feet up and 4 feet out from a tree, always adhering to that other great riff on Leave No Trace: If you pack it in, pack it out.
When you plan ahead and prepare, you're not only practicing safety 101, but also common sense. Doing so is always a combination of internal factors, such as how you're feeling or how the relational dynamics in a group are operating, as well as external factors, such as knowing the weather, terrain, or boundaries you need to respect. "Know before you go," is a practice that will make every experience more enjoyable.
Twelve years ago, while backpacking in broad daylight, I came around a shady bend in the trail, only to find a full moon beaming against a tree. "Oh, I'm sorry," the woman exclaimed, shuffling up her pants and waddling into the brush. "I'm sorry too," I replied, and not merely for the awkward encounter or the unmistakably human stench. Her business was clearly not done, and her side-eyed grimace urged me on. But as I think back on it now, I'm sorry I never circled back to talk about $#!&ing in the woods.
I didn't have to shame her into realizing that 200 feet – not two feet – is an ideal minimum distance away from water or trails. I didn't have to launch into a tirade about why it's so important to dig a hole at least six inches deep, and I didn't have to extol the virtues of thimbleberry leaves instead of bleached toilet paper. That precise moment might not have been ripe for civil trash talk on such matters, but as I was walking away, I could have reached into my pack and tossed her a trowel to borrow, so that she could have taken a first, small step to bury her deeds. But I didn't, and she might still be out there, hardly aware of how she harmed the wild place that we both loved.
That poor woman was not alone. In 1983, the entire city of nearby Missoula was gripped in fears of Giardia, an ailment transmitted by a gut-sucking, diarrhea-inducing aquatic microorganism. They dubbed the disease "beaver fever" and blamed the rodents who were active up Rattlesnake Creek, the sole source of the town's drinking water. The issue was concerning enough to prompt the city's massive shift to groundwater-based procurement, which continues to this day. But it also prompted an investigation that dismantled the misleading nickname for the disease: Inadequate waste disposal from increased human hikers and their dogs had caused the Giardia outbreak in the Rattlesnake National Recreation Area & Wilderness upstream of the city, not beavers.
Like every other animal, Homo sapiens has always relied on the great outdoors to perform daily acts of survival, including pooping. It's hard to pin down where and when we lost the traditional ecological knowledge to respect our carrying capacities, and to prevent problems associated with natural bodily functions or forays to wild places. But it's increasingly easy to see that the scale and scope of modern outdoor recreation is having serious, mounting consequences.
As activities of localized subsistence have expanded into leisure pursuits with a bona fide outdoor recreation industry, more people have come to identify nature as a playground instead of a shared habitat worthy of responsible, place-based care. A 2019 report from Headwaters Economics suggested that Montana's 33.8 million acres of public land generates $7.1 billion in consumer spending, $286 million in state and local taxes, and 71,000 jobs. 95 percent of polled Montanans suggest that outdoor recreation is important to their quality of life, but these statistics stoke urgent questions: Do the definite benefits that nature provides to human health threaten the vital roles of wild places for other species? Is the access to nature equitable? Are the collective impacts sustainable over the long term? As national parks like Yellowstone and Glacier grapple with how to handle 237 million people annually, the Swan Valley and other nearby public lands with recreation potential must ask these questions too. No single protected area is big enough or connected enough to sustain the needs of diverse, dynamic wild species, and every national park will be too small to absorb the human pressures that surge more and more each year.
These prospects can render us speechless and fearful, but three words can help center and endorse better outdoor recreation behaviors: Leave No Trace. These three words are a mantra and a movement, and the heart of an organization devoted to informing and inspiring people to protect the natural world. For 27 years, the Leave No Trace Center for Outdoor Ethics has taught people how to confront real concerns in outdoor recreation, and how to talk about shared solutions. The message of Leave No Trace is simple, positive, and action-oriented, and it upholds a restorative goal that all people can aspire to achieve. Far more than a commandment policing what thou shalt not, the phrase is a touchstone for Seven Principles that protect nature and promote good experiences on every outdoor adventure:
1. Plan ahead and prepare.
2. Travel and camp on durable surfaces.
3. Dispose of waste properly.
4. Leave what you find.
5. Minimize campfire impacts.
6. Respect wildlife.
7. Be considerate of other visitors.
Examples of recreation-based threats to the Swan Valley are endless, but drawing on these Seven Principles can help us see that the answers are endless, too. We are lucky to have a legacy of proactive backcountry rangers in the Swan Valley, including Daughter of the Sun Backcountry Services, who currently works in partnership with SVC to maintain trails and minimize user impacts in some of our most remote places. We also have Swan Valley Bear Resources (SVBR), which extends and adapts Leave No Trace ethics for its focus on bear coexistence. Beyond its education efforts and bear-resistant trash container and electric fence programs, which help private landowners secure items that could attract bears, SVBR's partnership with the Living with Wildlife Foundation affirms best practices at frontcountry and dispersed campsites on public land in our community. If you would ever like to connect with any of these services or ask a question about specific practices and applications of Leave No Trace, please stop by or call the SVC office (406-754-3137). Otherwise, we look forward to seeing you out in the woods, leaving nothing but care for a shared wild place.
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