In the 1960’s, Edward Abbey worked as a park ranger at Los Arches National Monument. During this time, he kept a journal of experiences, nature writing and outlaw philosophy which eventually became Desert Solitaire. This nonfiction work was a hit when it was first published in 1968, and brought ol’ Ed his first critical success.

The publication coincided with a very eventful few years for U.S. national parks. “Mission ’66,” the brainchild of N.P.S. Program Director Conrad L. Wirth, was an initiative to upgrade facilities and staffing, intended to be completed by 1966. Congress appropriated over a billion dollars for this ten year program. Abbey is skeptical, and he makes his opinion of the proposals as clear as a dart fired at a portrait of Wirth. In an early, lengthy chapter of the book, Abbey shares his own grand vision for National Park reform. Suffice it to say, his own project’s budget is zero dollars, and he can’t be troubled even to offer a single good god damn.

Although many of his ideas are intended to irritate and amuse, he is very serious about limiting accessibility to national parks. This caused me to raise an eyebrow, but I can understand his perspective. Instead of driving to and inside the park, he advocates that parkgoers ride bicycles, horses, or simply walk to see the sights.

Although the 21st century eye might see this as an argument against increasing carbon footprint, for Abbey it is one in support of authenticity. While working as a park ranger, he was delighted that outdoors enthusiasts stayed away from the park, “because of the unpaved entrance road, the unflushable toilets in the campgrounds, and the fact that most of them have never even heard of Arches National Monument. (Could there be a more genuine testimonial to its beauty and integrity?)”

I tend to agree. Abbey believes that cars and cameras prevent people from having an authentic experience in nature. For him, the only way to experience the wilderness is with reverence and rugged individualism. As for those with limited capacity, such as children, seniors and the handicapped, he has little sympathy. His views have been criticized as exclusionary, but I find his focus on the authentic admirable. It is hard not to imagine him as an old crank who wants to peaceably enjoy his ration of beer and bacon.

Abbey’s views are paternalistic. He assumes to know what’s best for the average person who attends a national park, and wants the recreational aspect of national parks to be structured with natural immersion in mind. And this is not a bad thing. By increasing traffic to the parks (and revenue), we often damage the ecosystem. We leave trash, graffiti and other signs that we were present, and add creature comforts and imprints of capitalism like soda machines and bathrooms, which detract from the beauty of an untouched landscape. Abbey does not see this as a fair trade, and he wants the wilderness to stay wild, even if that means it’s inaccessible to many.

Abbey is clearly an impassioned dude, which is endearing, even if some of his ideas are basically cruel. When we are passionate about something, we all tend to act like custodians of its value. We barricade ourselves within the space of a passion, hoping that it remains undiscovered. When others find out about our thing, and it becomes more popular, we feel our space has been invaded. We feel its value diminishing, whether in reality or psychologically. When that neighborhood restaurant is packed every night, we talk about the good old days when the food was better and the service more personal. What one sees in Desert Solitaire is a very masculine relationship with a beloved. Abbey’s protectiveness has him verbally brandishing a kitchen knife or a frying pan (read: whatever is in arm’s reach) against those that would devalue the object of his passion. And although this posture can be unflattering, it should not be discounted.

We find something to be pure the more it remains undiscovered. Abbey’s wilderness has this purity, but it also has something else; its gifts must be earned. He takes the time to learn about the landscape through careful observation and study. He acknowledges the patterns of life and sun and vegetation and tries to integrate himself. He invests his time in a way that’s almost unheard of today, when the modern working American can barely be diverted from the office, the internet, or the television.

His defensiveness is easy to misinterpret. When he jokes that he better enjoy the view now before a chairlift is built for the disabled, I understand why it causes readers to bristle. It’s mean. It sounds like a conservative talk show host. But if one keeps in mind the sacredness of his wilderness, as he often employs an analogy between the wilderness and the church, it is a defensible irritation. No one would be thrilled to hear that the French government installed an expensive high speed elevator inside the Notre Dame cathedral.

It’s probably become clear that I don’t have much to contribute in terms of politics, but I felt the need to defend Abbey from those who would see him as a macho asshole. I like his passion. Sometimes I feel like I don’t see enough passion in people.

Desert Solitaire is a classic book of masculine self-exploration. Working hard, building things, sweating, climbing, swimming, being naked, using and celebrating the human body; Abbey grapples with his primitive nature and learns something about himself and the world by virtue of it. Humans have bodies for a reason, and they participate in a physical world. In order to achieve balance, the mind and body should be awakened, and I really enjoyed this book’s particular focus on the non-emotional aspects of self-actualization.