modern American record in conservation has been brilliant and distinguished. It has inspired comparable efforts all around the earth. But it came just in time in our own land. And, as Mr. Udall’s vivid narrative makes clear, the race between education and erosion, between wisdom and waste, has not run its course. George Perkins Marsh pointed out a century ago that greed and shortsightedness were the natural enemies of a prudent resources policy. Each generation must deal anew with the “raiders,” with the scramble to use public resources for private profit, and with the tendency to prefer short-run profits to long-run necessities. The nation’s battle to preserve the common estate is far from won.
Mr. Udall understands this—and he understands too that new times give this battle new forms. I read with particular interest his chapter on “Conservation and the Future,” in which he sets forth the implications for the conservation effort of the new science and technology. On the one hand, he notes, science has opened up great new sources of energy and great new means of control. On the other hand, new technical processes and devices litter the countryside with waste and refuse, contaminate water and air, imperil wildlife and man, and endanger the balance of nature itself. Our economic standard of living rises, but our environmental standard of living—our access to nature and respect for it—deteriorates. A once beautiful nation, as Mr. Udall suggests, is in danger of turning into an “ugly America.” And the long-run effect will be not only to degrade the quality of the national life but to weaken the foundations of national power.
The crisis may be quiet, but it is urgent. We must do in our own day what Theodore Roosevelt did sixty years ago and Franklin Roosevelt thirty years ago; we must expand the concept of conservation to meet the imperious problems of the new age. We must develop new instruments of foresight and protection and nurture in order to recover the relationship between man and nature and to make sure that the national estate we pass on to our multiplying descendants is green and flourishing.
I hope that all Americans understand the importance of this effort, beecause it cannot be won until each American makes the preservation of “the beauty and the bounty of the American earth” his personal commitment. To this effort, Secretary Udall has given courageous leadership, and, to this understanding, The Quiet Crisis makes a stirring and illuminating contribution.
JOHN F. KENNEDY
CONTENTS
I The Land Wisdom of the Indians
II The Birth of a Land Policy:
THOMAS JEFFERSON
III The White Indians:
DANIEL BOONE, JED SMITH, AND THE MOUNTAIN MEN
IV The Stir of Conscience:
THOREAU AND THE NATURALISTS
V The Raid on Resources
VI The Beginning of Wisdom:
GEORGE PERKINS MARSH
VII The Beginning of Action:
CARL SCHURZ AND JOHN WESLEY POWELL
VIII The Woodlands:
PINCHOT AND THE FORESTERS
IX Wild and Park Lands:
JOHN MUIR
X Men Must Act:
THE ROOSEVELTS AND POLITICS
XI Individual Action:
ORGANIZERS AND PHILANTHROPISTS
XII Cities in Trouble:
FREDERICK LAW OLMSTED
XIII Conservation and the Future
XIV Notes on a Land Ethic for Tomorrow
Acknowledgments
Index
The Land Wisdom of the Indians
In the dust where we have buried the silent races and their abominations we have buried so much of the delicate magic of life.
—D. H. LAWRENCE (at Taos)
There are, today, a few wilderness reaches on the North American continent—in Alaska, in Canada, and in the high places of the Rocky Mountains—where the early-morning mantle of primeval America can be seen in its pristine glory, where one can gaze with wonder on the land as it was when the Indians first came. Geologically and geographically this continent was, and is, a masterpiece. With its ideal latitude and rich resources, the two-billion-acre expanse that became the United States was the promised land for active men.
The American continent was in a state of climax at the time of the first Indian intrusions ten millennia or more ago. Superlatives alone could describe the bewildering abundance of flora and fauna that enlivened its landscapes: the towering redwoods, the giant saguaro cacti, the teeming herds of buffalo, the beaver, and the grass were, of their kind, unsurpassed.
The most common trait of all primitive peoples is a reverence for the life-giving earth, and the native American shared this elemental ethic: the land was alive to his loving touch, and he, its son, was brother to all creatures. His feelings were made visible in medicine bundles and dance rhythms for rain, and all of his religious rites and land attitudes savored the inseparable world of nature and God, the Master of Life. During the long Indian tenure the land remained undefiled save for scars no deeper than the scratches of cornfield clearings or the farming canals of the Hohokams on the Arizona desert.
There was skill in gardening along with this respect for the earth, and when Sir Walter Raleigh’s colonists came warily ashore on the Atlantic Coast, Indians brought them gifts of melons and grapes. In Massachusetts, too, Indians not only schooled the Pilgrims in the culture of maize and squashes, but taught them how to fertilize the hills with alewives from the tidal creeks. The Five Nations and the Algonquians of the Northeast; the Creeks, Choctaws, Chickasaws, Cherokees, and Seminoles of the South; the village-dwelling Mandans of the Missouri River country; the Pueblos of Hopi, Zuni, and the Rio Grande; and the Pima of the Southwest, all put the earth to use and made it bring forth fruit. Their implements were Stone Age, but most tribes were acquiring the rudiments of a higher civilization. They were learning how to secure a surplus from the earth, and were beginning to in-vest it in goods, tools, and buildings, and to devote their leisure hours to craft and artwork and to the creation of religious rites and political systems.
The idea has long been implanted in our thinking that all American Indians belonged to nomadic bands that developed neither title to, nor ties with, the land. This is misconceived history, for even the tribes that were not village dwellers, tending garden plots of com, beans, or cotton, had stretches of land they regarded as their own. But there was a subtle qualification. The land and the Indians were bound together by the ties of kinship and nature, rather than by an understanding of property ownership. “The land is our mother,” said Iroquois tradition, said the Midwest Sauk and Foxes, said the Northwest Nez Perces of Chief Joseph. The com, fruits, roots, fish, and game were to all tribes the gifts which the Earth Mother gave freely to her children. And with that
