I often fall in love with the essences of certain places, as if they somehow embody the person I want to become—an indescribable concept of the atmosphere and identity each place nurtures. When I was younger, it was the glamour and elegance of Paris. In high school, I unfittingly labeled myself an “LA girl,” obsessed with the beaches and the naive promise of reinvention and wild dreams in Los Angeles. But last summer, I fell for somewhere more enduring.
In August, I visited Wyoming with my family. My brothers had been asking to go for years—they wanted to go out west and ride horses and wear cowboy hats. Naturally, our days were filled with hikes, rodeo outings, and river explorations.
In the middle of the American West, Jackson rests in a valley between the mountains of the Teton Range and the Gros Ventre Range on Wyoming’s western edge, along the Snake River. The land was originally home to several indigenous tribes before John Colter became the first Anglo-American to explore the region as part of the Lewis and Clark Expedition from 1804 to 1806; the town would be officially named in 1894 and incorporated in 1914. Today, it’s surrounded by abundant wildlife and breathtaking natural landscapes, neighboring the Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks.
The town square itself embodies the Old West. The low-story shops are made of simple, run-down wood, seemingly sunken compared to the mountains. Horses, ridden by police officers or pulling carriages, walk in the streets that stretch only a few blocks in each direction. They circle the town square park, each corner adorned with elk antler arches.
Wyoming feels suspended in time, absent of the development and commercialization that has captured much of even the West. A single-lane road—the Teton Pass highway—winds through, connecting the sparse town to endless fields ahead and, ultimately, the parks. The highway, if you could even call it that, is enclosed on either side with pastures of roaming animals, held back only by wooden gates. I would drive down, the only car in my periphery with no trace of a red light, wanting to soar as fast as I could on the open road while simultaneously slowing down to take in the peaks lining the skies. The ragged mountains themselves impose quiet humility, anchoring you in your place.
I often went for walks. I would walk out of the village, past the wandering horses, and onto the road, the Teton range to my left. With no destination in mind, I would wait for the moose to emerge from behind the trees. They would pick at the lavender and fauna that cover the ground—the contrast of the fierce antlers and the delicate petals.
From the road, I could see glimpses of the Grand Teton National Park ahead of me. Much farther up the winding path was Yellowstone. The national parks themselves were transcendental, capturing the magnificent wonders of our earth and wildlife. The kind of beauty you can’t quite comprehend how it exists.
In the Grand Teton Park, we wandered in an everlasting field with pockets of yellow flowers as the sun rose in the morning. Abandoned wooden cabins, the intrusion of humankind, are scattered amid the rocky mountains that are followed by rivers. The trails in between burst with sprawling wildflowers of all colors, present for a few fleeting months among the stretching forests of pine trees. We hiked through the bushes, and we dipped our toes in the pristine lakes littered only with rocks. In Yellowstone, we were immersed in wildlife that paid no attention to us. Absorbed in the sounds of cascading waterfalls and gorges, we watched herds of bison roam and steam erupt from geysers.
It’s an empowering sense of freedom and awe that the landscapes emulate. I found myself entranced in simply just being, of the human condition of living. Wyoming embodies the freedom of presence, stillness, and vastness. For better or for worse, I do not think I will ever fully embody the spirit of Wyoming. Perhaps I’ll forever aspire to.
Yet both in my hometown and at Harvard, the world has often felt small. People relentlessly rush onto the next, walking through streets that span blocks. Trapped in the chaos of achievement, there seems to be only a few narrow paths forward—a perpetual chase to prestige and lucrativeness, a confinement to the same buildings and aspirations and roads. It feels as if there is nothing else to explore.
In the expansiveness of those mountains and fields, empty of people and full of silence, I was reminded that the world is, in fact, anything but. In the peace, so quiet you could hear the elk softly grazing, I was reminded of what it felt like for the world to slow down.
The wildlife served as my own escape, the transcendentalist notion of the divinity and enlightening force of nature. President Theodore Roosevelt ’1880 echoes in my ears— “there are no words that can tell the hidden spirit of the wilderness, that can reveal its mystery, its melancholy, and its charm.” Beyond its monumental impact, our wildlife and parks have become shared cultural and environmental treasures that define our country.
It was Roosevelt’s visit to Wyoming and Yellowstone Park on a presidential tour in 1903 that helped inspire his pioneering conservationist efforts. Throughout his presidency from 1901 to 1909, Roosevelt federally protected over 230 million acres of public lands, including five national parks and 150 national forests, and created the modern-day U.S. Forest Service. During a time of massive industrialization and rapid technological advancement that threatened to exploit the nation’s natural resources, Roosevelt set a precedent of protection.
Now, the Trump administration is demolishing these conservation efforts.
His first day in office, Trump declared a National Energy Emergency in an executive order, encouraging mass oil and gas production. In February, the administration silently fired over a thousand national park employees, yet required parks to operate normally despite understaffing and record-breaking visitor counts. The administration additionally dismantled protections on over half of U.S. Forest Service-managed land in April, shortly after issuing another order on March 1 to expand timber production. Most recently, Trump is attacking the 1973 bipartisan Endangered Species Act, rolling back protections on what it means to “harm” species to expand industrial access into wildlife habitats. Trump claims he wants to put America first, but the destruction of our country’s nature does just the opposite.
The advancement of man can, and should, coexist with the wonders of nature. Roosevelt’s message from the early 20th century holds: “Leave it as it is. You can not improve on it, and many can only mar it. What you can do is to keep it for your children.”
We owe it to America—in all its natural beauty—to resist.
Meena Behringer ’27 (meenabehringer@college.harvard.edu) writes Forum for the Independent.