A Declaration of Independence

Kicking the Bucket List

As flash mobs assemble on lonely summits and “binge hiking” enters the working newshound’s vocabulary, it’s time to take a closer look at the bucket list. Is it a benign phenomenon, just the latest New Big Thing to engage the attention of a networked nation desperately seeking diversion? Or is it something else — a final breach in the last wall protecting wild places, say? Farwell opts for the latter alternative. And today he makes his case.
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by Farwell Forrest | January 26, 2018
Originally published, in somewhat different form, on July 4, 2017

I‘ll be the first to admit that Oscar Wilde isn’t one of my favorite authors. A flamboyant egoist, he epitomized camp a century before camp was cool, and his personal life was a tortured, untidy muddle that ended in tragedy. But I can’t deny that he had a way with words. And when, in reading “The Critic as Artist” for the first time not so very long ago, I came across Wilde’s plaint that “the old roads and dusty highways have been traversed too often[, and] their charm has been worn away by plodding feet,” my thoughts turned immediately to a recent story in a local paper that introduced me to a term wholly unknown in Wilde’s day: “binge hiking.”

Binge hiking is just what the name suggests, a type of compulsive behavior not unlike binge drinking and nearly as injurious. But while the binge drinker harms only himself — unless he gets behind the wheel of a car or powerboat, that is — the binge hiker has a much larger scope for mischief. He destroys the very thing he professes to care about: the wild solitudes that form the backdrop for his widely advertised “adventures.”

Compulsive behavior is nothing new, of course. Friday night drunks have been with us since humans discovered the art of fermentation. But the Internet and social media have added fuel to the fires of compulsion. Once upon a time, hikers and canoeists shared tips and tales in badly printed newsletters. Or got together in church basements a couple of times a year to suffer through each others’ slide shows. But now… Posting your trip photos, along with the obligatory summit selfie, is as easy as clicking a mouse — easier if your smartphone can get a signal, as it usually can today, even in many areas described as wilderness. You don’t have to be a seer to know where this leads. Millions of folks rise to the challenge to hike the selfsame trails, run the selfsame rapids, or climb the selfsame peaks as each of their 100 closest Facebook friends. And then each of them, in his turn, loses no time posting his photos for all to see. So the cycle begins again, in a textbook example of exponential propagation.

The results are entirely predictable. Just look around you as you walk the hills. The fragile alpine flora clinging precariously to peaks once visited by only a handful of quirky souls is now trampled into dust by herds of electronically guided (and goaded) trippers, few of whom are answering the call of the wild. Indeed, wilderness is the last thing they seek. Notwithstanding any protestations to the contrary, the binge hiker thrives on company, and the more company, the merrier. He travels not to see what lies over the next ridge, but to be seen — and to be seen by as many people as possible.

Nor is the phenomenon confined to peaks. Wild rivers experience traffic jams, too, as whitewater enthusiasts jostle for positions above the drops, while their camp followers fight with equal determination for the best spots on shore to shoot the inevitable videos, all of which are destined — you guessed it — for Facebook or YouTube. The resulting mêlées doubtlessly bring joy to the hearts of the owners of rural bars and convenience stores, not to mention the sober‑suited souls who populate the local chambers of commerce, but they’re sure to dishearten the rare canoeist seeking a few hours of comparative solitude in a landscape “untrammeled by man.” What then is the solitude‑seeker to do? Humans have always been ready to march to the beat of the loudest drummer. That’s what makes wars possible and Facebook profitable. Thoreau may have championed the cause of “the man [who] does not keep pace with his companions,” but it’s impossible to reduce his argument to a tweet, and his solitary voice is lost in a wilderness of 140‑character come‑ons.

Still, as winter snows deepen and the longing for spring grows sharper, talk of resistance hovers in the air. Mind you, I do not speak of politics. After a lifetime spent in a lunatic attempt to reconcile libertarian leanings with communitarian ideals, I’ve decided that H. L. Mencken was right to conclude that “democracy is the theory that the common people know what they want and deserve to get it good and hard.” We Americans are even now testing this hypothesis to destruction. But as I say, I do not wish to speak of politics. I am speaking of bucket lists.

Bucket lists, as I’m sure every reader knows, are simply checklists of all the things a person wants to do and see before he kicks the bucket. Hyped as recreational guides, they instead reflect workplace culture: They are goal‑driven and efficiency‑minded. Of course, the underlying idea may itself be questionable. Will our last breaths really be made easier knowing that we’ve climbed Everest naked in mid‑December or thrown ourselves from the top of the Washington Monument with only a pocket handkerchief for a parachute — and lived to tick the box on both occasions? Well, we shall see. I have my doubts.

But I have no doubt whatsoever that bucket lists are pernicious evils, as destructive as they are counterproductive. Why, you ask? Because, I reply. Or, to make my case more clearly, because …

Bucket Lists Feed the Worm Now Devouring Our World

And the name of the worm is Consumption. A bucket list is more than a score card. It is also a token to be exchanged with Facebook friends. I’ll show you mine, in other words, if you’ll show me yours. Then each of us will add the other’s goals to his own list. After all, to fail to do so would leave us prey to regrets when the day comes that we lie on our deathbeds. Why, we will ask ourselves as our tenure on earth draws to its predestined end, did we not join all our friends in breakfasting on ortolans while watching the sun rise over Machu Picchu? How could we leave such a vibrant and enriching experience untasted? But those regrets, heartfelt though they might be, will have come much too late. Each of us will die with his life’s promise unfulfilled.

The idea is unmanning. Such a lapse violates the very purpose of the bucket list, which is to ensure that we experience everything that is worth experiencing before fate’s moving finger writes finis to our story. So our lists grow longer with every passing day, as we add ever more things to do and see before we die. But all is not yet for the best in this best of all possible worlds. There is a further downside to consider: As our bucket lists make the rounds of our 1,000 closest Facebook friends, and as each of us seeks to equal or outdo his fellow listers, the waiting lines for tables at Machu Picchu also grow longer and longer. Worse yet, there may not be enough ortolans to go around. Which means that many of us will have to leave that box on our list unticked — or make do with orioles, or even (perish the thought!) starlings.

OK. I’m joking. But there’s no doubt that bucket lists encourage us to view experience as just another consumer good. This is evident in the ads that invite us to sign up for the latest “wilderness experience,” as if experience could be bought off the shelf like a rain jacket or a freeze‑dried meal for two. Therein lies the problem. Experience cannot be packaged and sold. It is nothing if it is not subjective. Yes, we can buy plane tickets, hire a guide, rent camp gear and boats, even contract with a videographer to make a professional recording of our latest adventure. What we cannot do is purchase an experience. Experience, the vital heart and soul of any journey, can only come from within. We can all eat our breakfast at Machu Picchu — all of us who can stump up the cash, that is — but no two of us will experience the same sunrise. And some of us will likely experience nothing beyond a mild dyspepsia, unless it’s a nagging worry about the size of our credit card balances. Ortolans don’t come cheap, after all.

For my part, I had the subjective character of experience brought home to me in the most forceful way possible when I found myself coping with 5/200 vision. That’s equivalent to 20/800, by the way, or — and I prefer this as being more descriptive — “fingers at five feet.” However expressed, it’s well below the standard that defines the “legally” blind in the States. And not surprisingly, my experience of the world around me changed dramatically as my eyesight dimmed. I found myself living in a Turner landscape, all shafts of light, pools of shadow, and swirling mists. Nothing more. If I’d purchased a trip to Machu Picchu back then, the resulting experience would have been very different than it would be today, when my vision is once again good enough to distinguish ortolans from orioles, at least when the light is right. (And no, in case you’re wondering, I’ve no wish to eat an ortolan, now or ever. I prefer a bird in the bush to one in the belly.)

The bottom line? If you long to dance to music of your own making, stiffen your sinews and declare your independence today. Set your bucket list to one side. Better yet, stick it in a locked drawer and lose the key. Or burn it on the grate. Leave to‑do lists for work and household chores. Preselected goals and time‑and‑motion efficiency are all well and good in their place, but they shouldn’t rule your life. Instead of chasing around the world to bank exotic “experiences” in a preneed burial account, live so as to make the most of each and every moment of every day. The sun you see rising over Mud Pond is the same sun you’d see from Machu Picchu, and with any luck you’ll be able to savor it in solitude, or — if you prefer — in the company of companions wholly of your own choosing. You can’t do that at Machu Picchu.

And one more thing: To ensure that others can do the same, leave your smartphone in your pack. Refuse to feed the fires of compulsion. Help a binge hiker kick his addiction today.

What’s next? Well, I haven’t quite finished with bucket lists. But that can wait till next Friday.