After months of studying things like acid mine drainage and nitrate fouling and harmful invasives and general degradation of our remaining wild landscapes and how people fight for them and how people first decided they were worth fighting for and how those first people argued for them; and why people care or don’t or calculate risk or generally value wildness or don’t; and trying to determine how I value it and how I can share that value with others, if that’s even possible; pages of notes, stacks of books, megabytes of maps; alternating frustration and hope with no good basis to judge the merit of either — all this leads naturally to a strong desire to escape to a wild place, while they’re still around. Some urgency creeps in. Frustration with the nine-to-five. So I try to remind myself: right now, take what can be had close to home.
Like the suburban pond that’s within easy portage distance, about thirty rods, of our garage. On a 1902 topographic map it’s the center of a wetland network; today it’s in the center of a mixed-zoning section of Roseville, Minn., and it gathers apartment and office building runoff. But if it’s still good enough for nesting wood ducks, and blue and green and white herons, and muskrats struggling to push huge mouthfuls of spring greens, then it ought to be good enough for my wife and I to stretch our paddling muscles.
And like the local trout. The stream is busy with anglers and muddy pathways, and despite decades of restoration is still subject to poisonous agricultural runoff. But if it’s good enough for two thousand trout per mile, a few caddis and blue-wings in partly-sunny late April, and the bald eagle cruising the valley huge and silent inside the close riparian tunnel, then it ought to be good enough for my wife and I to work upstream with size 16 CDC & Elks and maybe raise every hundredth fish.
The lesson I am trying to learn here is: don’t let the perfect become the enemy of the close-to-home and good-enough-for-today.