Forging Connections

Forging Connections

            What makes a person connected to their bioregion? Is it the natural beauty of the landscape? Is it the variety of flora and fauna? Or is it simply the length of time that someone lives in an area that creates these connections? These seem to be the most obvious answers that come to mind when thinking of bioregionalism, but for me the answer is more complicated and still at least partially unresolved.

            The convergence of the Blackfoot, Clark Fork and Bitterroot rivers forms the foundation of Missoula’s vibrant Rocky Mountain ecosystem. Nestled in the river valley, Missoula also rests at the convergence of five mountain ranges. More than just being the economic hub of Western Montana, Missoula is a regional environmental hub. As I have only lived here for eight months, my connections to this environment are limited but growing. 

            My experiences with the environment of this bioregion have begun to enlighten me on what it means to live here. Driving south through the Bitterroot revealed to me both the grandeur and scale of this region in a way no book could describe. The valley gradually narrows and the gently sloping hillsides slowly transform into an array of rocky cliffs. At the terminus of the valley lies Lost Trail, a ski resort nestled on the eastern edge of the Rockies. Upon reaching the summit of the mountain you are treated to a view that can only be described as epic. To the west lies the largest wilderness area in the continental United States, the vastness of which exceeds comprehension. Seeing the vast expanses of nature stretching beyond the horizon makes you feel as significant as an isolated comet traveling through the galaxy.

 Traveling to the Garnet ghost town east of Missoula brought out similar feelings. In the midst of December my girlfriend and I decided to visit Garnet, unaware of its remoteness or elevation. As we approached our destination the road became more treacherous and the snow grew deeper. Inevitably the power of my Subaru eventually succumbed to the power of nature and our progress came to an abrupt halt. Unwilling to abandon our goal, we left the car behind and set off on foot, unaware of the distance. Daylight was becoming scarce and the snow had grown to a level that our casual footwear was not designed to handle. Nevertheless our determination allowed us to push through and we arrived at our destination a mere five minutes before our firm turnaround time. After quickly snapping a few pictures we turned around to make our way home, reaching the vehicle just minutes before nightfall. The challenge that day built the foundation of my relationship with the bioregion, and helped propel it towards becoming my life place.

Before the trip to Garnet, the city Missoula was the only thing I knew of this region. An urban island surrounded by some mountains and trees, or whatever. Actually getting out in nature and isolating yourself from the rest of humanity forces you absorb the land around you. While this adventure was certainly no Bear Grylls escapade, being forced by nature to challenge myself to accomplish a goal gave me a newfound respect for the land around me. For me, being challenged by the region formed the strongest ties I have to it. I spent a decade growing up on a cushy and scenic island in Puget Sound, and feel hardly any connection to it at all. In contrast the year I spent overseas forged the strongest connection to a bioregion I have.

            The beauty of Missoula contrasts sharply with the landscapes of other bioregions I have lived in. In 2010 I spent a year in Iraq conducting patrols at least once a day in northeast Baghdad. To say the least, the landscape had few redeeming qualities. Trash covered nearly every open area and sewage collected in ditches that frequently overflowed. At the center of it all was an expansive garbage dump that perpetually burned a toxic mix of the refuse generated by an entire metropolis. Despite the desolate nature of the land combined with the unfettered human destruction, there were a few areas where nature was making a desperate last stand. A few miles to our east lay the Diyala River, a welcome respite from the harsh landscape to the west. Much like the way the Bitterroot River merges with the Clark Fork, the Diyala flows from the Zagros Mountains in western Iran until it merges into the Tigris just a few miles downstream from where we patrolled. Small farms and quaint villages dotted the banks of the river, and several thick palm groves filled in the gaps between them. As we traveled the long snakelike road that paralleled the banks of the river, we would pass by lush fields turned green from the precious water of Diyala. In contrast to the cold stares we received from some of the people in the urbanized area, the people who inhabited these villages seemed genuinely delighted to see us. Children would run from their homes to race alongside our vehicles, attempting to keep pace as long as they could. When we stopped, the locals would deliver us a small glass of heavily sugared chai tea while we conversed with the village elders over local issues. As the gunner of the Humvee I was able to enjoy a cool breeze that travelled down the valley as I scanned east across the river, ostensibly searching for threats, but in reality taking a chance to enjoy the one oasis of natural beauty that remained in my little parcel of Iraq.   

            So what creates connections to a bioregion? As I have gone over the circumstances of my past bioregions, the strength of my connection to them varies greatly. The strongest correlation between a bioregion and the connection I feel to the bioregion depends upon the degree to which the environment challenges me. Whether it was the long days of patrols through the slums of northeast Baghdad in blistering summer heat, or simply a race against darkness to visit an abandoned town in the midst of winter, these events proffered a challenge to overcome. In this process of overcoming nature, I have learned to respect it.