Paths in the Wilderness: John Muir and the Philosophy of Path-Making

Of all the paths you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt.

John Muir

“It’s amazing when you think of it…”. Rob trails off for a moment as he heaves at a slab of rock with his pinch bar. “We’re using exactly the same technology as the Romans did, and the Persians before them.” There is a convincing thud as the huge stone meets the earth and nestles into place. Rob gives a satisfied sigh of relief. Behind him, the sun glistens brightly on the flurries of snow and patches of ice that speckle the slopes of Aonach Beag. A dipper beeps mechanically as it darts downstream along the fast-flowing currents of the Water of Nevis. This stunning bit of highland wilderness and those fast-flowing waters are what have brought us to this spot, what have caused us to move this stone. We are here with Rob today to build, or rather re-build, a path.

Rob Cochrane was, at the time, the Conservation Officer for the John Muir Trust (JMT) which owns this part of Glen Nevis. JMT was founded in 1983 to conserve, protect, and restore the UK’s wild places for the benefit of all. Its name and its principles originate from the Scottish-American conservationist, John Muir (1838-1914), whose life was dedicated to the conservation of wild land and the promotion of the vital role that access to wilderness plays in the people’s wellbeing. He was instrumental in the foundation of the first National Parks in America, which have in turn inspired conservation reform around the world.

UHI’s trainee rangers have been brought to this site just beyond Steall Falls to help JMT rebuild a section of path which has collapsed into the river. The job is simple enough, if physically taxing in its execution. A section of the path has to be moved three or so metres in from the riverbank to divert around the collapsed bank. A trench is dug a few feet deep, medium-sized stones are laid in the base, followed by a layer of smaller stones, and then the top-gravel is removed from the existing path and placed on top of the new path. The original path is back-filled with the turf from the new path and, in the most physically challenging aspect of the build, the existing cross-drains are deconstructed and then re-assembled in the new path, which involves moving very large stones using pinch bars and brute strength. It takes our group of eight three days to rebuild twenty metres of path. This is strenuous work, and we all ache by the end of the week, but it is exquisitely satisfying in the immediate tangibility of its completion.

Not everyone, though, would agree that there should be a path here in the first place. For some conservationists and serious recreational users, paths and trails have no place in the wilderness. Some feel that the creation of paths brands a visible, human-made scar on the landscape which degrades the quality of wild land. They worry that paths encourage visitors to the extent that a piece of wild land might come to be “loved to death” – a potential problem that sites like Ben Nevis now face due to the sheer amount of footfall (and the associated problems of car parks, litter, and human waste) they endure. For example, when the National Trust of Scotland bought the Glencoe Estate using a donation from Percy Unna (1878-1950), the Chair of the Scottish Mountaineering Club, Unna specified that “primitive” land should be kept in its original condition, that no new paths should be built, and that the hills and mountains should not be made easier to climb.

To me, though, these concerns seem niche and elitist. They suggest that only certain people should have access to wilderness, by virtue of profession or ability. Should wilderness be preserved only for conservationists and climbers? Muir would disagree: Muir’s vision of wilderness was emancipatory and universal. He understood the desperate need for all of humanity to have access to wild places: “The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.” He championed the creation of national parks so that anyone might have the opportunity to experience wilderness, regardless of their background, capability, or wealth.

Hikes use the path we are rebuilding to access the Aonachs and, ultimately, Corrour, one of the most remote parts of the Scottish Highlands. The path means that any hiker might explore this area, without the need for remarkable fitness or navigation skills. It opens this wilderness to exploration and recreation in its widest sense. As we build, dozens of people from as many different walks of life pass us by – some stop to chat, two even stop to help us for a few minutes! It is deeply pleasing to think of these people enjoying their walk over the stones we have moved, not weighed down by the burden of wayfinding, able to admire the wilderness around them rather than crushing it underfoot.

Paths protect wilderness by providing a durable route through it. The path we have built has used only natural materials taken from the surrounding area and the layers of rocks will support hikers’ feet for perhaps twenty-five years before they too succumb to the river – it is, as Rob said, ancient technology which needs no updating. But also, by enabling people to access this area, we facilitate the development and maintenance of love affairs with nature. In the long term, these are more important than any other aspect of a path’s role in the wilderness. People love what they know, and they protect what they love. Access, provided by paths, is crucial to conservation. As Muir wrote: “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.”

As rangers, it is our duty to manage the challenges that public access to wilderness areas poses. These challenges are material and often trying. But amidst them, we should treasure the moments our services and efforts provide in emancipating people in nature, whether seen or unseen. Moving a stone or clearing a drain might seem a small thing, but you might just be helping someone fall in love.

- By Robert Boughten, 2024 Countryside Skills with Ranger Training course graduate