The Civilization of the West

A friend of mine, Colonel Benson, tells a funny story on himself: He was interviewing the guidance counselor at a school to which he was considering sending his son. The person, hoping to influence his decision, told him that the school would teach his son about the history, the culture, the art, and the philosophy of the "west." Benson was sold. He'd grown up in Montana, and his forebears had been fighting the wilderness for generations. He was thrilled that his son would become familiar with each of the Mountain Men. It was only later that Benson realized that the "west" meant Homer, Cicero, and Constantine, not Glass, Sublette, and Johnson. Benson, of course, did not need to tell anyone that story, but he used it as an introduction to his favorite book, which he was in the process of lending me. The book is called, "Crow Killer, The Saga of Liver-Eating Johnson."

While Crow Killer is a fast-paced, non-fiction (but partly legendary) account of one of the most famous nineteenth century Mountain Men, what struck me about it was that it was a story of loss. As each successive wave of settlement has crashed over the American west, the country has changed, and those who were here before have felt the loss of what they knew. The authors do not speculate regarding the feelings of the tribes—the Crow, the Shoshoni, the Flathead—as the Mountain Men began to bring change to the country, but they finish the story by noting that the Mountain Men themselves regretted the end of their own era and hated the influx of wagon trains, railroads, and cattle herds.

And on and on it goes. The "west" is now home to more than 30 million people, and rare is the corner unreached by motor or cell phone. While there is some fake (finger pointing) remorse from the pseudo-environmentalist soul patch crowd, the fact is that as Americans we want it all: We want wilderness this morning and a brew pub at happy hour; we want the back-country after breakfast and access to commercial air travel by 3pm; we want to stop development by noon and fill up our tanks in time for the commute home. I guess, like Colonel Benson, we should all have a laugh at ourselves and hope our kids grow up knowing both Homer and Hugh Glass. (My reader was probably wondering how I was going to try to tie this whole mess together. Tada.)