’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
—Ulysses, 1883, Lord Alfred Tennyson
The west, in the West, is a frontier and defining state of mind; a concept that resides deep within the American psyche. My home state, Alaska, truly qualifies as the most western place in the world (according to our topographers, anyhow). With some of the most remote treks of land left in the known world, Alaska boasts a vast landscape where the true self-made man might find an environment his equal.
Westward expansion daunted Europeans who ventured across the Atlantic; Locke thought it inconceivable that the vast resources of the Americas could ever be exhausted by human labor. Manifest Destiny went from 19th century motto, to cultural motif. And nowadays, whether watching Rio Bravo or driving Route 66, I see restless motion into the western unknown as embedded within my cultural heritage. Yet, somehow, if there has even been a point where the lifeline of the west seems to slowly wane into the bleak void of history, I think it would be now.
The musk ox farm in Alaska is a truly American project: We herders take great risks in order to cultivate industry, ingenuity and downright toughness. When was a large bovine last domesticated by humans—let alone, domesticated with benevolent societal intent? Sadly, the success of this project inevitably entails our taming of some of that last American wild par excellence.
My task was largely to tame the wildness out of calves by breaking their spirits. Ironically, it only seems possible to love and know the frontier through participating in its dismantling. Perhaps that is why the cowboy is an intrinsically tragic figure, and one with which we Americans are so readily able to identify.
As Alaska is slowly primed for agriculture, its population grows. It becomes more like the “lower forty-eight.” There is no other vast wildness to which we can next turn. The further expression of this westward motion marks its nearing end.
My fear in some ways can only be experienced, not expressed. How much further north and west will be left beyond the frozen tundra where the oomingmak reside? How much longer can they reside there after their arctic outfit of qiviut has been stripped from them?
Yet despite these observations, the further east I went, the more out of place and unfamiliar I felt. The more that time elapses here, the more it seems as though I have been spoiled by the west in a way that makes other experiences pale and lifeless.
The work available in the east does not contain much allure or unique appeal. Careers are largely well-trodden paths that lead to a variety of predictable ends. I’ve worked carpentry, masonry and the like. I’ve spent days constructing stonewalls meant to mimic historic walls; creatively being uninventive. It is often said that imitation is the highest form of flattery, and this reverence for the past is felt in full force in the east.
The discrepancy between classes, disparity of wealth, and urban-to-rural divides have all amplified; I feel strangely as though I still live outside the boundaries of these principles which seem to rule the eastern seaboard. Here, I am a sort of novelty with whom it seems most are able to identify, but few are able to understand.
No one here knows a practical application for the non-specialist skill of self-determination. It is commonly said that Alaska is what the United States used to be. If this holds truth, then I am a tourist from the past, out of place and foreign, able to see what the inevitable fates of time hold in store for my homeland—and the hand I’ve played in creating these conditions. The further east I go, the less I feel like a steam drill and the more I feel like Mr. Henry himself, for the frontiersman seems to share the fate of the frontier.
To stop the domestication of musk oxen seems would be foolhardy in the face of the many other, much less noble ways in which Alaska continues to be "tamed" (drilling comes to mind). It would also somehow go against the grain of history. The John Teals of the world are the makers of history. To stand still is to have no direction, and history is made through motion. To be in the west entails moving west, and such agency is not always local (Teal, I must confess, was a Vermonter). Musk oxen, in their solid stance, stand opposed to forward motion. But I have seen them slowly succumb to the pressure we place upon them. To "protect" them from such "progress" seems only to diminish their nobility; it is in essence to say that their own defense is not strong enough.
Do I regret having played a hand in speeding up history? Not at all. Of the countless vocations I might have chosen, only a handful would offer the vantage point on progress that I have enjoyed. As difficult as it might be to witness, awareness seems far better than ignorance. After working with my giant arctic "goats" for long enough, I give them a fighting chance in remaining wild. In the test of time, these oxen have already outlasted me—and I like to think that this stands for something.
And while the project seems at odds with itself—combining the rugged cowboy with the gentle intellectual—it holds these two seemingly opposing American identities together. This juncture is where history is made. I for one opt not only to partake in this process, but to revel in it. I cannot help but hope that the motion of discovery continues unabated—for the day that this impulse is gone, so vanishes a central principle of the American identity.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
—Ulysses, 1883, Lord Alfred Tennyson
The west, in the West, is a frontier and defining state of mind; a concept that resides deep within the American psyche. My home state, Alaska, truly qualifies as the most western place in the world (according to our topographers, anyhow). With some of the most remote treks of land left in the known world, Alaska boasts a vast landscape where the true self-made man might find an environment his equal.
Westward expansion daunted Europeans who ventured across the Atlantic; Locke thought it inconceivable that the vast resources of the Americas could ever be exhausted by human labor. Manifest Destiny went from 19th century motto, to cultural motif. And nowadays, whether watching Rio Bravo or driving Route 66, I see restless motion into the western unknown as embedded within my cultural heritage. Yet, somehow, if there has even been a point where the lifeline of the west seems to slowly wane into the bleak void of history, I think it would be now.
The musk ox farm in Alaska is a truly American project: We herders take great risks in order to cultivate industry, ingenuity and downright toughness. When was a large bovine last domesticated by humans—let alone, domesticated with benevolent societal intent? Sadly, the success of this project inevitably entails our taming of some of that last American wild par excellence.
To be among the herd is to bear witness
to the decay of the primordial west.
To be among the herd is to bear witness to the decay of the primordial west; to be a cog in the stream drill bearing down on John Henry. I simply found the isolation of watching the wild disappear overbearing. As a true lover of the last frontier, coping with the ethical problems of joining its dismantling jaded me—even should the goal be noble, and results good.to the decay of the primordial west.
My task was largely to tame the wildness out of calves by breaking their spirits. Ironically, it only seems possible to love and know the frontier through participating in its dismantling. Perhaps that is why the cowboy is an intrinsically tragic figure, and one with which we Americans are so readily able to identify.
As Alaska is slowly primed for agriculture, its population grows. It becomes more like the “lower forty-eight.” There is no other vast wildness to which we can next turn. The further expression of this westward motion marks its nearing end.
My fear in some ways can only be experienced, not expressed. How much further north and west will be left beyond the frozen tundra where the oomingmak reside? How much longer can they reside there after their arctic outfit of qiviut has been stripped from them?
***
With these reservations, I departed for the east. A forewarning from Gertrude Bell (after her experience among the nomads of the steppe) rang in my ears: “Return to your cities, to your smooth paths and ordered lives—these are not of your kindred. The irretrievable centuries lie between, and the stream of civilization has carried you away from the eternal loneliness of the mountains…For the nomads can no more give you a sense of companionship than the wild goats.”Yet despite these observations, the further east I went, the more out of place and unfamiliar I felt. The more that time elapses here, the more it seems as though I have been spoiled by the west in a way that makes other experiences pale and lifeless.
The work available in the east does not contain much allure or unique appeal. Careers are largely well-trodden paths that lead to a variety of predictable ends. I’ve worked carpentry, masonry and the like. I’ve spent days constructing stonewalls meant to mimic historic walls; creatively being uninventive. It is often said that imitation is the highest form of flattery, and this reverence for the past is felt in full force in the east.
I have not yet stumbled upon a vocation
that requires the use of a rifle, lasso
or well-honed reflexes.
I have not yet stumbled upon a vocation that requires the use of a rifle, lasso or well-honed reflexes; where there are no rules, guidelines or codes of conduct by which to abide; where I’m accountable only to myself—namely, the type of work most sought when pioneers first came to America (spare the lasso perhaps). This is the place where John Henry was overtaken.that requires the use of a rifle, lasso
or well-honed reflexes.
The discrepancy between classes, disparity of wealth, and urban-to-rural divides have all amplified; I feel strangely as though I still live outside the boundaries of these principles which seem to rule the eastern seaboard. Here, I am a sort of novelty with whom it seems most are able to identify, but few are able to understand.
No one here knows a practical application for the non-specialist skill of self-determination. It is commonly said that Alaska is what the United States used to be. If this holds truth, then I am a tourist from the past, out of place and foreign, able to see what the inevitable fates of time hold in store for my homeland—and the hand I’ve played in creating these conditions. The further east I go, the less I feel like a steam drill and the more I feel like Mr. Henry himself, for the frontiersman seems to share the fate of the frontier.
It is commonly said that Alaska is what the United States used to be.
Is there another path? A way to cheat the barreling, inevitable freight train of history that John Henry died building? If there is, I for one have not yet seen it. As I watch the freight train of westward motion continue towards the end of the track, unable to divert the ensuing wreck to come, I find myself looking to the oxen.To stop the domestication of musk oxen seems would be foolhardy in the face of the many other, much less noble ways in which Alaska continues to be "tamed" (drilling comes to mind). It would also somehow go against the grain of history. The John Teals of the world are the makers of history. To stand still is to have no direction, and history is made through motion. To be in the west entails moving west, and such agency is not always local (Teal, I must confess, was a Vermonter). Musk oxen, in their solid stance, stand opposed to forward motion. But I have seen them slowly succumb to the pressure we place upon them. To "protect" them from such "progress" seems only to diminish their nobility; it is in essence to say that their own defense is not strong enough.
To me, going east in America feels like
moving backwards through time.
Moving east, as I’ve concluded through recent experiences, is undoubtedly a direction with symbolic force—but of an entirely different nature. To me, going east in America feels like moving backwards through time. It is to walk through a rich archive with many lost files.moving backwards through time.
Do I regret having played a hand in speeding up history? Not at all. Of the countless vocations I might have chosen, only a handful would offer the vantage point on progress that I have enjoyed. As difficult as it might be to witness, awareness seems far better than ignorance. After working with my giant arctic "goats" for long enough, I give them a fighting chance in remaining wild. In the test of time, these oxen have already outlasted me—and I like to think that this stands for something.
And while the project seems at odds with itself—combining the rugged cowboy with the gentle intellectual—it holds these two seemingly opposing American identities together. This juncture is where history is made. I for one opt not only to partake in this process, but to revel in it. I cannot help but hope that the motion of discovery continues unabated—for the day that this impulse is gone, so vanishes a central principle of the American identity.