Whenever I think about the accessibility of wilderness and the numerous national and state parks spread wide throughout the country, I remember a very specific moment during my first visit to Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming. It wasn’t the moment we watched Old Faithful blow, surrounded by a mass of roughly one thousand other tourists far cleaner than myself and my Australian companion. It wasn’t angling for a prime photographic framing position at one of the myriad thermal pools and it wasn’t walking across the fully accessible boardwalks surrounding the most objectively beautiful features in the park. It was the moment we drove past the southern entrance station and saw giant tour buses towering like iron mammoths, parked along the side of the road, dwarfing the twenty or so family-sized SUVs (behemoths in their own right), expelling several hundred passengers so they could take a picture of a quite peculiar sight; a large wooden sign, painted brown, bearing the badge of the National Park Service, and naming the once quiet and hallowed grounds beyond: Yellowstone National Park.

The line bore several hundred patiently waiting their turn to gather family or companions in front of the welcoming billboard, eager to prove their travels and memorialize the moment in this grand American wilderness. We drove by exclaiming our amazement to each other while in our own iron transportation and began winding our way through that past haven for bison, grizzly, mountain cats, and various antlered creatures.

I haven’t always felt the way I do now. Certainly not when I took that trip three years ago. We rode from Milwaukee to Seattle on four wheels and pavement for most of the way, occasionally breaking stride for a dirt road to a trailhead or campground, typically maintaining a steady eighty mile per hour pace, cruising from park to park on I-80. We got into the wilderness, sure, but not without the help of that tiny red two-door coupe (RIP). I’m not writing this to villainize pavement or mechanized transportation. These are necessary, if not extraordinary means to bring us closer to nature and solitude. But, I am writing to say that a line must be drawn. Whether by us, the people, or those sworn to protect the lands in an official capacity, it doesn’t quite matter to me. Maybe this line is curved, slanted, squiggly, dashed, dotted, bold, or straight. Draw it any way you’d like, but draw it in an effort to weed out those willing to put a bison calf in the back of their aforementioned SUV and those dumb enough to put a human infant on the back of an elk for a cool picture.

Both of these things have happened, in or near wildly accessible parks with not so great of consequences following the action (the baby human was ok, the baby bison didn’t fair so well). In both of these cases, there is meant to be a line. A line between what is wild and what is not. At this point in our human evolution and development, we are no longer wild. That is OK. But, the necessity for a distinction between the two has grown incomprehensibly for some and beautifully for others. The ignorance of this separation between what is wild and what is not is often the cause for these ridiculous occurrences, and can be avoided through education, the limiting of accessibility, and just basic human intuition. If you see a bison, don’t pet it because it looks furry. It literally weighs a TON. Even the most obese human beings don’t come close to that (maybe some do). It has horns. You do not. You have a relatively soft skull and even softer limbs. In really simple terms, if you hear thunder and see lightning…take shelter or get the fuck out of there.

Obviously and somewhat unfortunately, the majority of the infrastructural improvements to parks throughout the states cannot be undone. Pavement is here to stay. Lodges and cabins and massive visitors centers are going nowhere. And at the end of the day, I am OK with that. It’s sad, a bit boring, and a bit disappointing that those of us interested in visiting these places without such interference, madness, and human intervention are now unable, but I am OK with it. These ‘improvements’ offer a lot to a lot of different people.

They can enable access for those that need it or those not geared toward immersing themselves in the primitive and fully self-reliant environment known as the backcountry. And though I may think there is something comprehensively wrong with the latter group, there is not, and I believe they deserve to appreciate and view the world in at least some manner. Whether or not that manner aligns with my personal desire and views, people deserve to see it. And if that provides enough stimulation for a person or family to share in joy with each other, than who am I to judge? What I would ask and ideally require of those or any people travelling into public lands is to take a moment to educate themselves on where they are going, what to do and what not to do, how to limit their impact, and why all of it is hugely important.

The other day, a coworker of mine hiked into The Narrows in Zion National Park and relayed to me a story of denim-clad tourists wading through knee-high water over river stones and a slow current, jeans absorbing nearly the entirety of the Virgin River. She recommended to me that people should be required to participate in some educational component before being allowed to venture through The Narrows. We pondered and concluded that something along the lines of a video presentation that states the simple “Don’t wear pants,” would do the trick. (Often times, there is a required presentation before visitors are allowed in certain areas, but if the percentage of people who absorb that information is over ten, I would be shocked.)

In theory, especially at Zion, an educational component is present through the countless interpretive signs and exhibits in and around the main visitor center and fairly thoroughly throughout the majority of the accessible bits of the parks. So, in theory, people should be reading these signs, preparing before they make their trip, and making somewhat conscious decisions based on the knowledge they gain from that wildly intensive research. And yet, people march through the Virgin River in Jeans, climb Angel’s Landing in flip-flops, and go into the backcountry exclaiming “Where is the water fountain?!?!”. (Hint: there isn’t one.)

I can’t help but wonder what the areas of National and State Parks would resemble if not segmented by tarmac and guardrails. They would likely be as they once were, appearing as inhospitable lands to the naked eyes of foreigners and pioneers, seeming as vast expanses treacherous to cross, inviting only to those that desire something greater than photographs as a return for exploration. The footprints would belong mostly to the great old bears and beasts we now hear about in stories and books, their skulls attached to their necks commanding fear and respect rather than displayed in glass cases smeared with the fingerprints of four year olds.

The desert, mountain, and seaside landscapes would resemble their actual qualities. The desert teeming with inexplicable life and contrast, the mountains verbose in their enormity and conspicuous in their lavish flora and fauna, the seaside violent and unforgiving, a beacon into a largely unknown realm. These places haven’t ceased to exist, nor have their qualities, but often times they are masked by the imposition of people. There are places left significantly untouched, like the immense wilds of Alaska, or Wyoming, or those left in Maine. And though the establishment of national parks and monuments and forests may change the composition of these lands, these establishments, though oft bound by money, protect the land more than most would. Overall, I believe there are good intentions somewhere within the Department of the Interior, the National Parks Service, the Bureau of Land Management, and within whatever other bureaucratic bodies govern the use of our lands. But, there needs to be a stopping point. When can we begin protecting lands without developing them? Without labeling them Parks or Monuments? When can we begin protecting lands without constructing roads that cut through massive troves of trees and habitat? Without using them as profitable businesses? When can we begin protecting lands without making them overly accessible and removing the wild qualities that make them….WILD.

There must be a stopping point. The access we have built up to this point is beyond sufficient and we need not introduce more of the wild realm to four-lane traffic, indoor plumbing, and the stink of human waste. The areas unaffected by infrastructure and the dream of accessibility should remain as they are, untouched and inaccessible for those that really want to discover wild isolation, for the untainted habitats, and for the health of our beautiful blue ball. Allow those who desire something more than a boardwalk to be unceremoniously harassed by mosquitos, chased by mountain goats, and confronted by bears. Allow them to experience wilderness in its fullest and richest state, unabated and unknown, overflowing with mystery and isolation. Allow them to abandon accessibility from time to time and visit that which so few in this day understand.

We are bored with accessibility. We are incensed by the need to bend over and pick-up chewing gum and banana peels discarded without care. We are lost among the many. We are dirtbags hoping to avoid public showers and restrooms, only to bathe in rivers and shit in holes. Please allow us this. Please allow us the privilege to grab our map and compass, some cheese wiz, whiskey, and water, stretch our legs, bushwhack into the backcountry, stumble through quicksand in the desert, scramble up scree-fields in the Rockies, and maybe one day die in a place unbeknownst to you.