Chapter 5
The Compromise Called For
The great bulk of recreational activity will always
be of the conventional kinda day on the beach, a picnic in the
park, or a weekend at a resort hotel. The idea is not that reflective
recreation should consume all our leisure time, but rather that we
should develop a taste for it, and that stimulating the appetite should
be a primary function of national parks.
The principal change such a policy would engender is
this: Rather than seeking mainly to serve the wide variety of
recreational preferences visitors bring with them, park managers would
encourage all visitorswhatever their past experiences or
skillsto try more challenging and demanding recreation. While the
Park Service may believe it is doing this effectively now, the actual
pattern of park visitations suggests a quite different conclusion.
Under present practice, a great variety of different
areas are available to the visitor, ranging from such easily accessible
and rather urbanized places as Yosemite Valley and the South Rim of
Grand Canyon to remote backcountry wilderness. In practical effect,
however, visitors are channeled to those places that reflect their
present preferences and are effectively insulated from set tings
unfamiliar to them. A first-time visitor to Yosemite National Park, for
example, is overwhelmingly likely to find himself in Yosemite Valley, a
place full of roads, hotels, stores, and crowds. His opportunity for an
experience of contemplative recreation is quite limited, not simply
because he has chosen that place, but because that is the face the park
almost inevitably presents to someone in his position.
A policy committed to promoting reflective recreation
as one of its major goals would focus on the individual who might be
willing to try such an experience, but who is neither experienced nor
ready to make a substantial commitment. This is the affirmative side of
the preservationists concern about how other people use the parks. The
casual or inexperienced visitor may have been attracted by articles or
films illustrating the splendors of the forested wilderness or of a wild
river adventure. He may be ready to take the plunge if a practicable
opportunity is presented.
Such inclinations could be encouraged. Yet the
wilderness backcountry is too rugged for him and the popular gathering
places too urbanized. To make wilderness areas more accessible, by
installing roads there, would put the visitor in the wilderness without
exposing him to it, and would also intrude upon others' opportunities to
experience challenging wild areas. Places like Yosemite Valley, easily
accessible and yet splendid in its scenery and resources, would be an
ideal place for such a beginner if it were much less developed and less
crowded. The paradox is that an effective policy will not be advanced
simply by establishing more wilderness areas, for no matter how much we
enlarge the backcountry, and no matter how small the areas devoted to
city-type development and motorized nature-loop drives, those latter
places will remain the principal magnets for most park visitors.
A related difficulty arises when management
commingles the service function with the task of offering novel and
challenging experiences. A now-shelved plan to build a motorized tramway
to the top of Guadalupe Peak in Guadalupe Mountain National Park in
Texas illustrates the problem. [1] The park
is situated in a lonely area between El Paso and Carlsbad Caverns and
contains the highest elevation in Texas. Jutting out of the surrounding
barren country, Guadalupe Peak provides a moderate walk of a few hours
to a fine prospect. But the park has virtually no developed facilities
and is little visited. A few years ago, the National Park Service
published a plan noting that many people want to experience the
wilderness, but find it difficult or too time consuming. The plan
therefore proposed the construction of a tramway to carry visitors to
the top of the mountain so they could look down into a wilderness area.
This, the plan noted, "will be truly a wilderness threshold experience."
[2] Peering at a wilderness from a tramway
station, however, is not a wilderness experience; the sense of
wilderness is not achieved by standing at its threshold, but by engaging
it from within. Not everyone will seize the chance to experience
wilderness, even in the modest dose that Guadalupe Park presents. The
opportunity can and should be offered as a choice, to be accepted or
rejected; but it should not be falsified or domesticated.
If we want authentic choices, we will have to make
some compromises, for we can't have places like Yosemite Valley both as
an accessible place for a distinctive recreational experience and as a
place to serve conventional tourist demands. One possible compromise is
to try fully to serve the quantitative demand for conventional
recreation and to provide opportunities for all the different kinds of
activities the public wants, but not to assure those
opportunities in locations that have a special value for reflective
recreation. To some extent, of course, we already follow such a policy
in the national parks. In general, resorts, and activities like tennis,
golf, and pool swimming are excluded from the parks. So long as there is
a reasonable opportunity somewhere to participate in all the various
activities we want, and with a considerable degree of amenity and
convenience, we can reserve critical areas in the parks from
conventional tourism without destroying the chance for a conscious
choice by the tourist. There would be changes, of coursea
reduction in urbanizing influences, with less auto traffic, less densely
developed accommodations, a sharp deemphasis on standardized
concessioner activities for the novice or bored visitor, and a removal
of the resort-type atmosphere that has grown up around some of the park
hotels.
To be sure this proposal is a compromise, and
it does not meet the desires of the visitor who wants to play tennis or
go to a nightclub in the shadows of Yosemite's magnificent scenery, who
likes the crowds, or who wants to ride a motorcycle at high speed
through a desert park. The value of such an arrangement is that it
forces us to separate in our minds contemplative from conventional
service recreation. Such unbundling of differing wants clarifies the
extent to which we are willing to subject ourselves to self-coercion. It
requires us to ask ourselves whether we are going to a park because it
is a special, challenging, and unfamiliar place without ordinary
comforts and services. It puts the symbolism of the parks before us, not
as an abstract image, but as a decision with consequences.
One practical difficulty with such an approach grows
our of the spectacular increase in recreational use that we have been
experiencing in recent years. [3] The demand
for service recreation is so great and is growing so fast that it might
seem impossible to provide the quantity demanded without imposing even
further than we have already on national parks. The problem is not as
intractable as it appears to be. Our ability to accommodate elsewhere
demands that now press upon national park areas depends significantly on
the importance assigned to reserving park areas. An incident in the
history of the Olympic National Park (though dealing with commercial
demand rather than recreation) provides a revealing example of the
relationship between the value we assign to parks and our ability to
meet the range of demands that are made upon them.
Olympic National Park in Washington was established
largely because of its magnificent stands of Sitka spruce. The Olympic
peninsula is also an important area for commercial timber harvesting.
Timber companies had long been eager to log the land in the park, and
there had been continual dispute over park boundaries. These disputes
were relatively quiescent when World War II broke out. [4]
It happened that Sitka spruce wood was peculiarly
valuable for military airplane production and was in short supply.
Pressures began to mount to permit logging (which is generally
prohibited in national parks) in Olympic Park during the war and for the
war effort. The War Production Board, whose job it was to assure
adequate supplies of material, recommended that timber harvesting be
permitted in the park. This situation presented an agonizing dilemma for
Park Service officials. They were extremely reluctant to see the park's
most distinctive resource impaired. At the same time, both as a matter
of conviction and prudence, the official position of the Park Service
was one of determined support for the war effort.
The problem was made especially complex by two
additional facts. One was a suspicion that the park's lumber might not
be needed, and that, to a significant extent, the war effort was being
used as a wedge by the local timber industry to get under cover of
patriotic need what it had failed to get in peacetime. In addition, the
Park Service had bitter memories of World War I, when considerable
industrial intrusions had been made on the national parks, particularly
for grazing. The Park Service had the good fortune to be supported by a
strong secretary of the interior, Harold Ickes. With Ickes's backing
Park Service Director Newton Drury issued a public statement saying,
The virgin forests in the national parks should not
be cut unless the trees are absolutely essential to the prosecution of
the war, with no alternative, and only as a last resort. Critical
necessity rather than convenience should be the governing reason for
such sacrifice of an important part of our federal estate.
The policy adopted did not end with a statement of
principle, however. Indeed, that was just the beginning. Secretary Ickes
himself corresponded with the head of the War Production Board to get a
sense of the problem and to make clear the Interior Department's
reluctance. It turned out that there was Sitka spruce in both Alaska and
Canada, but it had been classified as unavailable. The Alaska timber was
remote, and it was doubted that a sufficient amount could be made
available in a short time. Canada had put an embargo on the export to
the United States of high grade logs, including Sitka spruce, and Ickes
suspected that they were holding back production.
With its strong commitment to save the Olympic timber
if possible, the Interior Department not only articulated the burden of
showing "critical necessity" but set out to find the facts for itself
and to suggest alternatives. Park Service employees were dispatched to
aircraft manufacturing plants to get a first-hand view of the problem,
and to the Forest Service Products Laboratory to investigate
alternatives to the use of wood. A proposal was developed for a program
of special assistance to private companies logging nonparklands that
were difficult to reach, including help in obtaining draft deferments
for additional employees. With some inquiry and diplomacy, aircraft log
production was increased in British Columbia, relieving the pressure on
American forests. Ickes wrote to the War Production Board suggesting
eight specific measures to relieve the Sitka spruce shortage without
incursions on Olympic National Park.
By November of 1943, at a congressional hearing
convened to consider the problem, the War Production Board testified
that it no longer believed logging of the park was necessary. A change
in aircraft lumber requirements had occurred, the Board stated,
following discussions between them and the Interior Department. A
decision had been made to construct certain planes of materials other
than wood, and an increase in the supply of aluminum available for
aircraft production had helped the situation. The War Production Board
withdrew its request for park timber and by the end of 1943 the
pressures on Olympic had virtually ceased.
The Olympic Park case reveals that claimed conflicts
are often less intractable than they appear at first view; that by
forcing alternatives explicitly into the open, and by pursuing the facts
behind the claims, we can often resolve concrete cases without having to
weigh competing values in the abstract. The tension between service of
conventional recreation and the preservation of national parks will
never wholly disappear, but the problem is not aided by posing questions
such as How many acres of wilderness are enough? Like the question of
how many books a library should have, or how many Brahms symphonies are
sufficient, these are empty canards. If the public accedes to the
preservationist position, the task will be to hold on to as much
national parkland as other irresistible public demands will tolerate. In
dealing with conflict, one must always have a starting point. If the
goal is to encourage contemplative recreation in the parks, the
way to do it is diligently to look for ways to meet other recreational
demands more effectively at existing sites, and to scrutinize more
carefully claims of need and demand. The strategy is to increase the
burden of proof that there is no alternative except the use of
parklands: that is the lesson of Olympic Park.
Beyond seeking alternatives, there is a serious
question whether the pressures now being felt on public recreation lands
are being unduly inflated. Ski resort proposals are among the most
frequent and controversial sources of demand for intensive, urbanizing
development of the public lands. While they arise much more frequently
in the national forests than in the parks, the problem of assessing and
responding to demand is aptly illustrated by the ski resort problem. One
of the most hotly contested public recreation controversies of recent
years arose out of a plan by Walt Disney Enterprises to build an alpine
ski village in California's Mineral King Valley, on national forest land
just at the southern rip of Sequoia National Park, northeast of
Bakersfield. [5] While not a pristine
wilderness, Mineral King basin is a beautiful and secluded mountain
valley high in the central Sierra range. The valley floor, at an
elevation of seventy-eight hundred feet, is dominated by striking peaks
rising to more than twelve thousand feet above dramatic slopes. Though
there was active mining in the valley at one time, no commercial
activity has been carried on recently, and the area has largely reverted
to a primitive condition. Good weather, ample snowfall, and fine scenery
make it a superlative site for both summer and winter recreation.
The Mineral King proposal was bitterly opposed, and
ultimately defeated, by citizen opposition, led by the Sierra Club. [6] The controversy is, on first consideration,
extremely perplexing. Why should even the most ardent defender of public
lands have objected to the use of the valley for downhill skiing?
Opposition to the Disney plan seemed to be based on
some version of the extreme positions that high-quality natural
ecosystems should never be degraded, even when they are particularly
well suited for skiing; that wilderness hiking or cross-country skiing
should be preferred to alpine skiing; or that the recreational
preferences of some public constituencies should simply be given
priority over others. The controversy was made particularly baffling by
the fact that the principal opponent of the Disney plan, the Sierra
Club, was the very organization that had first suggested the site. The
problem arose this way.
Substantial growth in Southern California's
population during the mid-1940s threatened to make inadequate the
available facilities for downhill skiing within easy reach of Los
Angeles. Ski enthusiasts urged the development of the nearby San
Gorgonio area, which was within a national forest. But because the area
had been classified primitivea term the Forest Service used to
reserve land for wilderness-type recreationconservation groups,
including the Sierra Club, rejected the San Gorgonio site.
Both the Forest Service, which traditionally played
an entrepreneurial role in facilitating recreation development on
national forest land, and the Sierra Club, which at that time routinely
accompanied its opposition to any given site with efforts to find a more
appropriate location, suggested the more remote Mineral King Valley. The
Forest Service then sought bids from private ski developers, as was its
practice, but no responses were forthcoming, principally because access
to Mineral King required the improvement of a road into the valley. The
cost of the new road was so great that it would have made commercial
development economically impracticable.
For some years the idea of developing Mineral King
lay dormant, but by the mid-1960s Disney Enterprises, through adroit
political effort, had obtained agreement by the state of California,
with aid from a federal government agency, to finance the access road.
Disney then asked the Forest Service to renew its request for bids to
develop the valley, which it did. Disney put forward a development
proposal which was accepted. At this point, however, the Sierra Club
decided to oppose construction of a ski resort at Mineral King. The
issue became a celebrated national controversy; the Sierra Club sued to
prevent the development, taking its case to the United States Supreme
Court. [7]
Having originally suggested the Mineral King site,
the Sierra Club could hardly avoid some embarrassment at the subsequent
vigor with which it fought the Disney proposal. There are many
explanations for this shift of position, all of them no doubt accurate
as far as they go. It is true, for example, that environmental
consciousness was sharply on the rise during the time the new Mineral
King development was urged; that a new urgency was given to the
preservation of remaining wilderness; that the Sierra Club had itself
changed character, becoming more preservationist in its outlook; and
that the Disney plan was considerably more ambitious than anyone
(including the Forest Service) had anticipated.
The accuracy of these considerations does not,
however, adequately explain the intensity of opposition, and the
symbolic meaning, that the Mineral King battle took on. For example, the
developer's promise that modification of the natural resources would be
minimized to the fullest extent consistent with a ski facility did not
reduce the opposition, [8] for it soon became
clear that the opponents were not interested in a well-developed ski
resort, but wanted no ski resort at all. Even a former Sierra Club
president was unable to support, or find a justification, for such
opposition. Breaking ranks with his colleagues, he said: ". . . [T]he
American way of life . . . is pluralistic . . . [I] ha[ve] no use for
the argument that there was something superior in the wilderness use and
that the skiers should be considered a second-class use." [9]
His statement is perfectly appropriate, but like many
participants on both sides of the battle, he failed to see through to
the real issue. The controversy over the proposed Disney ski resort was
not a disagreement about skiing and its place on the public lands, but
about resorts, and their place on the public lands. The essential
facts were not the physical impacts on the land, and the possible
minimization of those impacts, but rather that Disney was proposing to
invest thirty-five million dollars in a facility that would accommodate
some eight thousand people a day in a valley of about three hundred
acres; that within this area there were to be thirteen restaurants,
seating 2,350, including a 150-seat coffee shop at the top of an
eleven-thousand-foot mountain to which a high-capacity gondola was to
lift visitors; that there was to be parking for 3,600 cars, twenty-two
ski lifts, and, in addition, a full complement of swimming pools, a
horse corral, a golf course, tennis courts, and a considerable number of
shops.
The central issue at Mineral King was not simply
service to skiers who needed such a site, but the development of a
magnet facility calculated to draw to it as many people as possible. The
Disney proposal was really a plan of the sort we encourage for central
city malls, where the idea is to provide so wide a variety of attractive
activities that people are strongly induced to come to the place, even
though they may previously have shunned it. In the mall situation, our
goal is to attract crowds to the city, to make the place a lure for
activity because we want people in that location and are quite
indifferent to what they do once they get there. But there is no public
advantage as such in attracting crowds to places like Mineral King
Valley. If we are to draw people to the valley, it should be because the
place provides a special opportunity for a distinctive kind of
recreation; or it is a needed site, because of its physical
characteristics, for activities that cannot reasonably be accommodated
elsewhere.
The Mineral King dispute nicely illuminates a
difference between an entrepreneurial and a public policy perspective on
dealing with questions of recreational demand. [10] Plainly the entrepreneur is doing more than
filling a demand for ski opportunities. He is trying to fill the place
where he does business. Mineral King presented the Disney version of a
policy for public mountain lands, and, unfortunately, that version has
insinuated itself into public policy as well.
The dynamics of resort development on the public
lands was recently further illuminated by a proposal no develop a
facility called Ski Yellowstone in Montana's Gallatin National Forest.
[11] There, because the Montana Wilderness
Association had filed a competing application to develop a nonprofit
cross-country ski facility, and because neighboring ski resort owners,
themselves having financial problems, submitted comments on the Ski
Yellowstone proposal, the record on the application for a permit to use
national forest land provides a rich store of information about such
developments.
In commenting on the Ski Yellowstone proposal, the
manager of another ski area in the regionJackson Hole Ski
Corporationexplained that his company had been in business for
twelve years, and only in the last two of those had it earned a profit.
His explanation was that "only in the past one or two years has [our
company] reached the point of having enough restaurants, shops, cocktail
lounges and other activities to satisfy the destination resort customer
for one week." [12] The resort operator
needs a critical mass of people no support the facilities that in turn
support him. As the owner of the Sun Valley ski resort in Idaho
explained: "[t]he village had to have a certain size. You had to have
enough people to support five or six good restaurants, and more than one
night spot." [13]
The scale and proliferation of ski resorts on the
public lands reflects these business demands. The Grand Targhee Resort,
not far from Yellowstone, noted that it could not operate profitably
without a minimum of six hundred skiers per day; [14] and the Jackson Hole resort said that it
was only when it began to fill overnight facilities for two thousand
visitors, accommodation for twenty-six hundred skiers a day, six hotels,
and twenty small businesses that it began to show a profit. [15] The Forest Service's own study of the ski
industry observed that areas like Colorado's Telluride and Big Sky in
Montana would be unlikely to get over the problems of low profitability
and low utilization until they completed the development of a "full
range of resort facilities." [16]
The Ski Yellowstone controversy makes clear that
meeting demand, in the simplest sense of the words, is only a modest
part of what underlies such applications. The entrepreneur is not merely
meeting demand but stimulating it; or, if one prefers, he is tapping
latent demand. The concept of latent demand, however, raises a number of
questions for a public policy. How do we know whether there is more
latent demand for this activity than for some other? How do we know what
latent demand, and how much of it, we are tapping? To what extent are we
attracting skiers, and to what extent are we attracting those who simply
want a winter resort? [17]
From the point of view of public land policy, these
are questions of considerable importance. If we adopt a policy of
encouraging reflective recreation, a resort settingwhere a primary
goal is to entertain and occupy the visitoris likely no conflict
with the policy. If we are being asked to meet demands for certain
services, then the question is how much the other policy must
necessarily yield. If the need is only pressing for ski facilities, then
such facilities (but without resort accoutrements) might well be
provided without intruding on the capacity of the area to sustain
reflective recreation. If there are people who want skiing, and some
resort-type service along with it, we ought no ascertain just how much
such demand there isand then decide to what extent we want to
provide such a mixture in any given area. A number of quite distinct
questions need to be unbundled.
The entrepreneur, however, has an entirely different
perspective. The less he unbundles these questions the better, for he
wants as many people as possible to be attracted to his resort.
Moreover, in one important respect, his goals are in direct conflict
with the public policy proposed here. The entrepreneur has a positive
goal of attracting a clientele interested in visiting shops,
restaurants, bars, and nightclubs. [18] He
makes his money from spenders and crowds, not from those who are seeking
in a solitary way to find their own style. As one observer noted
(talking about a similar problem in regard to snowmobiling):
The motel owners have tried to operate year-around. .
. . [W]e got together to see if we couldn't organize something around
snowmobiling. . . . In 1969, we would have one motel, a restaurant and
two grocery stores open on a winter weekendand that was all. Now
we have about 20 motels, four service campgrounds. . . . When you talk
about economic value, snowmobiling is unsurpassed. It's an expensive
sport and spreads a lot of money around. The hikers bring their own food
and stay in an Appalachian Mountain hut. Snowmobilers stay in local
motels, eat at the restaurant, patronize the gas stations. [19]
These pressures are less evident in the national
parks, where resort-type development has in principle been resisted and
where concessioners are traditionally more tightly restrained. But the
pressures are there nonetheless, and at times they rise dramatically to
the surface, a phenomenon that has been intensified since large
recreational corporations have begun to acquire the traditional small,
local concessions in the parks. [20]
The most celebrated recent incident occurred shortly
after the giant entertainment conglomerate, Music Corporation of America
(MCA) acquired the concession in Yosemite National Park. Soon afterward,
a proposed master plan was issued that incorporated much of the
development plan suggested by MCA. [21]
MCA's proposal included expansion of overnight facilities in the already
crowded Yosemite Valley, replacement of rustic cabins with modern motel
units, construction of an aerial tramway from the valley floor to
Glacier Point for "viewing, eating and sundry sales," additional
concessioner-operated backcountry camps, a proposal to stock park
streams with nonnative trout, encouragement of winter recreational use
and expansion of visitor facilities at Hodgdon Meadows, promotion of
convention business in the park, and a number of other developmental
proposals. [22] Only after an anguished
public outcry, and a series of sharply critical congressional hearings
on the MCA efforts (including the filming of a television series that
included helicopter ferrying in the park) did the Park Service undertake
a thorough reconsideration of its management plans. [23]
This was an extreme case, to be sure, and it arose at
a time when the Park Service had its least distinguished and least
professional leadership in the directorship, but the problem is a
perennial one. [24] It crops up even in such
minor matters as acquiescence in park souvenir shops selling baubles
with no relation whatever to park resources, defended on the ground that
such concessions are necessary to keep the shops profitable.
A policy of unbundling demand could considerably
reshape use pressures on the public lands. To allow the development of
ski facilities, but discourage accompanying resort facilities, would
provide a service to those whose principal interest is skiing. It would
permit the continued development of places like Utah's Alta in the
Wasatch Mountains, a sparsely developed ski facility which has operated
for many years with a modest lodge, a pleasant restaurant, and
superlative alpine skiing. [25] It would
divert those who are looking principally for a winter resort vacation to
private lands or to places on the public lands that have less value for
their undisturbed natural features. In would thus minimize the sort of
conflicts that arose at Mineral King, while leaving such places
available for modest scale downhill skiing developments if the demand
for skiing cannot reasonably be met elsewhere.
To adopt such a policy would reduce some of the
current conflicts over recreation lands, for a significant share of the
present demand for such mixed experiences as resort/skiing developments
is surely being generated by entrepreneurial initiatives in search of a
way to fill vacation time. Such needs do not necessarily call for
ecologically or scenically important public lands. Some years ago, Brian
Harry, who was the chief naturalist at Yosemite National Park, remarked:
"People used to come for the beauty and serenity. Those who come now
don't mind the crowds; in fact they like them. . . . They come for the
action." [26] If it's just the "action" that
is being sought by many, and there is a plenitude of nonskiing "action"
at many ski resorts, the demand can be diverted elsewhere.
The policy suggested here would no doubt produce a
decline in the promotion of skiing by big industrial enterprises, such
as the giant corporations that tried to develop Big Sky in Montana, and
the airlines that have latched onto skiing resorts as a major air
vacation destination. Much public land resort development would be
exposed as economic pump priming for local communities, designed to
generate road, airport, hotel, and restaurant development and
accompanying employment. It would also be revealed that a number of ski
resort proposals are little more than vacation-home developments in
public land settings, now taking the form of the burgeoning condominiums
to be seen adjacent to many ski facilities.
The accommodations and compromises proposed here,
however, do not exhaust the problem. For if urbanized recreation
continues to grow at present rates, a commitment to meet it could well
overwhelm any effort at compromise, even with the best efforts to
implement the Olympic Park approach and to separate different kinds of
preferences. If the policy proposed here is to succeed, it will have
also to moderate total demand for the kinds of conventional recreation
that are most in conflict with it. The most serious practical problem in
meeting current recreational demand is presented by those activities
that are highly consumptive of resources: high-powered vehicles that
require a great deal of acreage; noisy motors that create conflicts with
other uses over a large area; hurried visits to a multitude of places,
creating crowded conditions; uses that exhaust large quantities of
energy and demand substantial development of facilities. This is not a
description of all conventional recreation, of course, but of the types
of such recreation that are most at the center of controversy. Such
activities are characterized by intensiveness of resource use, or
intensiveness of consumption, rather than by the intensiveness of
experience that defines the preservationist ideal for use of the
parks.
The significance of such intensive-use activities is
not merely that they impose unprecedented pressures on a limited base of
resources, but that the satisfactions they produce are directly
correlated to the increasing exercise of power and of consumption. If a
motorcycle is good, a more powerful and faster cycle is better. If a
resort is good, a bigger resort with even more things to do is an
improvement. Unlike some ordinary tourist activities (a picnic or a
volleyball game) which are simply different from reflective recreation,
power-based recreation is antithetical to it. The fly-fisherman, for
example, simplifies his tools in order to reduce power over his
experience. The consumer-recreationist does precisely the opposite.
If the preservationist does not succeed in reducing
the taste for such activities, he will fundamentally have failed. His
goal is to encourage the public increasingly to internalize its capacity
to wring satisfaction out of experiencenot merely for the brief
moments spent in the parks, but in the attitudes carried away from them
as well. In this respect recreation policy fundamentally reinforces the
symbolic value that parks embody for the preservationist. As symbols of
restraint, and human limits, their message is inevitably undermined
unless they affect the attitudes we bring to the use of our leisure
time.
Indeed, the issue is not simply reducing conflict
between opportunities for different kinds of recreation. It is unlikely
that we could fill the exploding demand for power-based recreation even
if that were our first priority. Recreation that is dependent on
ever-increasing growth and impact for its satisfactions is insatiable.
The scarcity of resources we encounter in trying to meet such
recreational demand is as much a psychological as a physical problem. No
matter how much land we have, more will always be demanded because the
object is itself more, more of whatever there is. This is what the
Spanish philosopher José Ortega y Gasser called "the psychology
of the spoiled child" [27] who is insatiable
because his object is not some particular thing, but a larger
share. Increase is itself the object of his desire. [28] This, perhaps, is another way of asserting
that the will to power is ultimately self-defeating, and that the
preservationists moralistic stance may be a practical solution as well,
even for those who can only see the problem as one of perpetually
insufficient physical resources.
The distinction between recreation that draws on
intensiveness of experience and that which draws on intensiveness of
impact is analogous to that between serious literature and commercial
mass entertainment. In the former case there is never a shortage of
material; a reader cannot in a lifetime begin to exhaust the available
resources precisely because the material's capacity to engage us turns
on the intensity of experience it demands. In contrast, commercial
entertainment is chronically short of materials. It uses up writers and
stories at a furious rate, and it finds itself drawn to material of
ever-increasing impactmore violence, more sex, more shocking
situationsto maintain the viewer's attention. It is feeding an
appetite that, based on external stimulation, grows more the more it is
fed. In generates its own scarcity.
Our recently increased appreciation of the physical
limits of the world to provide goods and services in boundless measure
to everyoneour concern about crowded land, shortages of energy and
mineralsgive weight to Ortega's observation that so long as we
continue to believe in the principle of increase as the measure of
satisfaction of our desires, we will never be satisfied and will never
avoid scarcity.
The parks themselves, however they are used, will
never constitute more than a small fraction of all our recreational
resources. And ideal forms of recreation will never account for more
than a tiny fraction of anyone's leisure activity. But the underlying
ideasubstituting intensiveness of experience for intensiveness of
consumptioncan radiate out into a much wider area of both private
and public recreation and can speak broadly to the problems of scarcity
and conflict that we see everywhere. Power-based recreation will
continue to present limitless demands until we come to terms with the
implications of power as a recreational motif.
|