We eased off the pavement, onto a dirt track that twisted through a tangle of scrub oak and piF1on. We were looking for a place to stay the night, a small pull off if possible, hidden from the road, with just a little patch of shade.

My original plan involved stretching out under the cottonwoods across from Newspaper Rock, but the site had been closed to vagabonds like us due to a natural terrorism alert: the season of spring flash floods. Enormous boulders that must have required heavy equipment to move appeared like trolls at every access to a clearing, blocking our way. We were being protected. Despite the unusually warm, dry weather, signs unreservedly announced “No Camping.”  

Oddly, these unfortunate circumstances led to the greatest fortune, because while I know that national forest land is essential for the environment, I also know it’s good for a few impromptu pull-offs, and in our search for a camping alternative, we had stumbled across the gem of them all. Just enough space to park, a towering half century old piF1on as a sentinel, no garbage, no traffic, no other campers. I consulted my compass and my odometer: exactly one mile from the national forest boundary. Pam, of course, elected to name it, as if she’d been assigned Eve’s responsibilities in this faux Eden: One Mile Inn. No towels, no ice machine, no swimming pool, but an inspiring view of an 800-foot scramble into a pristine canyon. The sound of rushing water threaded through a canopy of trees below us. I said we’d take it, then proceeded to unpack the truck.

While the sun still searched for its spot along the horizon to settle in for the night, I pulled out a book I’d been anxious to open, one I’d recently checked out from our local library: Beyond the National Parks: a Recreation Guide to Public Lands of the West. I opened it but couldn’t concentrate on the words, the maps or the pictures. A wild turkey called repeatedly to its mate from somewhere on the canyon floor. A breeze scraped against the piF1on needles above my head, and like an old LP record the music was irresistible. What else could I do? I closed the book and allowed my eyes to translate the landscape.

National forests and libraries have more in common than most people realize. Both depend on taxpayer-supported operating budgets, and both are charged with the necessity providing public access. I’ve never camped overnight in a public library, but the idea of sleeping beside the stacks, as the librarians call them, has a certain appeal.

Libraries and national forests share another characteristic: Both represent the purest spirit of democracy any society could ever dream up. And sadly, both receive inadequate funding, despite their essential missions. No matter where I am in America, national forests and libraries are open to me — that is, while they still possess the means of staying open, but the privatization and corporate management of America continues to make me nervous. Concessionaires already operate in our public campgrounds and national parks. How much longer can it be before my pull-off turns into a pull-over, with park police checking my National ID to see if I fit the description of Tom Joad. Barnes and Nobles, Amazon and Alibris.com manage our information as gatekeepers of the publishing industry. Our heritage will be available at cost, plus shipping and handling.

All these thoughts sat propped up against a rock, weighing me down, as I looked out over the canyon. Pam swore it would take a hike at daybreak to release me from my dread, so we went to bed. I dreamt of the scramble down through the tumble of scree and talus, toward the invisible and mysterious sound of rushing water. I thought, if nothing else, something magical must be at the bottom of it all.

By sunrise we’d picked a likely trail and headed down the slope, sighting toward a fresh patch of aspen trees. Naturally, the path that appeared simple from the top proved difficult, with impassable slopes ending in impossible drops, and with visions of access turning into dangerous slips and slides. Pam abandoned the gracefulness of scrambling and lowered her center of gravity until her butt slid along the rock surface; it was that steep. I grabbed gravity’s hand and lunged like a drunk from ledge to ledge.

When we eventually arrived on the canyon floor, a torrent of spring runoff forced its way through a thicket of willows, so thick we couldn’t see to the other side. Spring was raging. I knew we could go no further, but we’d managed to get down to the water’s edge. I felt elated, weightless, panting like a puppy that’s just chewed up a tennis shoe.

On our way back to the top we heard a loud, infernal combustion roar from the canyon floor: Motorized engines — 4-wheelers — aggressively making their way along some invisible river trail on the other side of the willows. I looked at Pam; she looked at me. She shrugged her shoulders. Her face was an open book — unpublished, of course — on the subject of public access.

David Feela is a teacher at Montezuma-Cortez High School. View his webpage at ww.geocities.com/feelasophy.