The Ethics of Borrowing

The compulsion to complete every road and trail on a map is fairly arbitrary, as is the approximately forty by sixtyish mile quadrant of the rocky mountains my foldable map represents. The edges of the map are not administrative boundaries, not counties, not even mountain ranges, but simply where the map makers overlaid an imaginary rectangle on a section of earth. The farthest boundaries of my map bisect trails and highways. The bottom is fifteen or so miles of the top of the county immediately to the south and the northern reaches lie on the other side of a pretty significant set of mountains. The folds within follow no particular topography or watershed.

The rules I create are equally random and self-manifested. But the longer I follow them, the more ingrained and morally binding they seem to become. 

Gunnison sits in a veritable sea of public land. National Forests, recreation areas, bureau of land management areas, state wildlife and wilderness areas are sewn together like a freeform quilt. It is not uncommon to travel through several management areas in a single outing. Their borders are delineated typically by a loosely strung barbed wire fence and, occasionally, a wide green metal gate that groans and clanks when pushed open.

Given that nearly 80% of the county I live in is public land, there is very little excuse for trespassing, as the many miles of roads and trails are nearly all connected. The enormity of our access is embedded into the psyche of our community, but even our abundance of wide open space is occasionally interrupted by private holdings. Some areas are lined with private property and some are a tangle of the commonly and privately owned. Claims from a hundred years ago can appear unexpectedly, as they are situated amidst thousands of acres of public land. In other places, trophy homes act as a sort of moat between the county roads and the enormous tracts of public land beyond. 

The longer I pursue this dream, the more remote and difficult the access is becoming. The spaghetti noodle routes have plenty of orphan strands, mile, half mile and quarter mile fingers that often end abruptly with no trespassing signs that are both brief and clear in tone. My sense of community and strong desire to avoid the business end of a shotgun provides plenty of incentive to avoid breaching that which is not mine, even if it means taking the long, long way around. 

Nevertheless, there are certain undone sections that lie tantalizingly close (or odyssinaly far, depending on how you look at it).    

Today marks only the third time I have requested to parlay someone’s holding. In these scenarios, I position myself as borrower and here is my code of ethics:    

I always ask and begin the ask with an introduction, explaining myself to be a local and for how long. This is important, as longevity in a place as remote as Gunnison is a significant tribal marker. 

I share my map and goal with them, which typically engenders a certain admiration and comradery. I’ve gotten the impression that, for many landowners, it is a point of pride that someone finds their particular chunk of rolling hills as interesting as they do. Also, I really have travelled an impressive amount of roads on my feet and the incongruity of those miles on the highlighted map against my roundish, maternal, middle aged self takes most people aback.  

The dogs are optional and I always ask if they can come along. No friends. No kids. No human company of any kind. 

I give them my plan, including estimated time of arrivals and departures. I vow to never, ever tell anyone how I got there or who let me in. Except for Tom, of course, but the sharing of information among spouses is universally accepted in my mind. Or at least it should be.   

Hiking or running only. Something about a bike makes people who want to avoid other people groan. I aim to move quietly and lightly.     

And lastly, and perhaps most sacrosanct, I aim to never ask twice.

And so, for the purposes of this blog, last week, as a steely colored storm rolled in, I went up and around a steep sage gulch, in mud and snow. It was quite long. The views were vast. A picture of Charlie will have to do.