Natural Rivals: John Muir, Gifford Pinchot, And The Creation Of America’s Public Lands

After the American Revolution, the United States grew geographically in leaps and bounds, and one of the government’s goals was to distribute that land to American citizens. Public land was to be eventually privatized, but then came the realization that much federal land was being stolen through fraudulent land claims with no gain to the nation, some was simply too steep or barren to be desired by any private owner, and some was too unique or too beautiful to pass to private ownership and exploitation. The American people, through the federal government, would own part of the American geography and it would be retained for the common good.

John Clayton tells the story of two men, John Muir and Gifford Pinchot, major players in decisions about which parts of the American geography would be retained by the people and for what common good. Most accounts of the conservation movement describe a rivalry between the two that shaped the movement. Clayton summarizes the common perception of their positions: “The romantic Muir is preservation: leaving nature alone so as to benefit from its holistic wonder. The practical Pinchot is conservation: using natural resources sustainably to serve what Pinchot called the ‘greatest good for the greatest number in the long run.’” John Muir’s writing and activism led to creation of national parks, while Pinchot’s pragmatism and political savvy led to national forests.

Clayton divides Natural Rivals into two parts, the first of which looks at Muir and Pinchot and is titled “Natural Prophet, Natural Statesman.” Of Muir he writes that, “to a biographer the key question about any individual is: What did he or she want? And with Muir the evidence shows that he wanted to bring people to a richer spiritual life through appreciation of the natural world. Activist, scientist, writer, and wanderer were all offshoots. At his core, he aspired to be a prophet.”

Muir famously lost the final battle of his life, to keep a dam out of Hetch Hetchy Valley in Yosemite National Park. He thought construction of a dam would deal a blow to the sanctity of Yosemite and perhaps of all national parks, and Clayton argues that the last years of his life “play like a tragedy.” The prophet “didn’t make enough conversions” to keep the dam out of the park.

Clayton argues also that the “grand arc” of Pinchot’s career also plays like a tragedy. He got himself needlessly fired as chief of the U.S. Forest Service, driven by ego to disputes with President Taft and many others. “His ego led him to write memoirs claiming immense individual credit for advances achieved by groups. His ego must have secretly enjoyed his opponents referring to conservation as Pinchotism. His conservation cause might have developed a better footing if his hubris could have set it free.”

Part two is titled “The Birth of the Public Lands.” Clayton begins by  briefly summarizing how the stage was set for the emergence of a movement for public lands, a period during which the course of Western American history dictated that “the federal government would have to decide that it wanted to own this land forever, rather than holding it in trust for eventual privatization.” Some lands were withdrawn from homesteading “so that they could better serve tourism or other nonagricultural economic purposes” like scenic preservation, wildlife conservation, and watershed protection. Then along came Muir “talking about spiritual purposes.” Inspired by the example of Yellowstone National Park, Muir saw in the national park idea a way to protect land with the potential to inspire the human spirit.

Clayton recounts how Pinchot, trained as a forester, emerged as a leader of the movement for federal “conservation” of forests. Without realizing the import of doing so, Congress passed Section 24 of an omnibus homestead reform act in its 1890-91 session that “allowed the president to reserve forested lands from homestead entry.” This became known as the Forest Reserve Act of 1891, and Presidents Benjamin Harrison and Grover Cleveland promptly used it to remove land from entry under the homestead act. Clayton describes the uproar this caused, which ultimately resulted in formation of a commission to decide what lands should be reserved with Pinchot as the secretary of the commission, catapulting him into the forefront of the forest conservation movement. While Muir was pitching parks for the human spirit, Pinchot rose to become conservation adviser to Theodore Roosevelt and the result was creation of the national forest system and the Forest Service.

Next, Clayton describes how, in the 20th century, people concerned about the American natural world in general and public lands in particular identified themselves with either the preservationist or conservationist camps. Muir was for some too purist, too much of a nature worshipper, too much an advocate of removing land from economic production; Pinchot for others was too political and pragmatic, opening up public land to exploitation and degradation. Muir was identified with the National Park Service, Pinchot with the Forest Service, which he served as its founding chief.

Clayton argues in Natural Rivals that while Muir and Pinchot were adversaries in some situations, “rivalries such as theirs can sometimes be productive rather than divisive.” He recounts how they came together in 1896 in what was to become Glacier National Park, Pinchot as secretary of the commission surveying Western forests to advise on what should remain public forest, Muir a volunteer adviser to the group. Circumstances allowed them to spend several days together in gorgeous scenery, and while Clayton admits there is no record of what they talked about, he “can imagine weighty ideas emerging under the stars.”

They could agree that they shared a greater priority. This land must be handled rationally and fairly. Politics-as-usual wasn’t working. A new system was needed, one with enough foresight to preserve the scenery of Lake McDonald while also allowing for growth and development. Within this new system, their goals might still conflict. But in the ethereal sunset, under the nemophila sky, the two men could find mutual respect. Each could appreciate and understand the other as an individual with great intellect and integrity. Each could see that the rival perspective was valid, was equally deserving of triumph.

Despite their “rival perspectives,” Clayton argues, Muir and Pinchot played key and complementary roles in what resulted from the Forest Commission’s work. Both men were attracted to conservation because they sought to “articulate a relationship between society and nature.”

According to Clayton, the Forest Commission made a political mess out of their work, and Muir as writer and Pinchot as politician saved the day.

Muir’s essays from 1897 sound as if they have an unstated dual byline: Muir’s rhetorical gifts are applied to Pinchot’s ideas. For example, in Mining and Scientific Press, a San Francisco weekly on mining and industry topics, Muir argued for “a new departure in the Government’s management of its forest property.” Specifically, “Uncle Sam is trying to have his forests – at the same time trying to find out how best they can be put to use forever for the benefit of miners, farmers, lumbermen, and people in general.”

The prophet Muir could also be the pragmatist and was in his advocacy for public land and what ultimately would be defined as “multiple use” of parts of that land. Muir was not only a wilderness prophet but also a farmer, so he was not the wilderness purist many have made him out to be. Clayton elaborates on how these two “natural rivals” complemented each other:

Muir’s moral authority and Pinchot’s tactical genius made for an exceptional combination. As Muir continued to stoke the public’s affection for forest and other natural places, Pinchot efficiently managed many such places, halting abuses. Muir wrote captivating books; Pinchot compelled loggers to use sustainable practices. Muir won hearts; Pinchot built trust. Furthermore, they were both able to shed the shackles that limited the commission’s discussion to forest reserves – they expanded public lands in new formats, such as wildlife refuges and national monuments. When the National Park Service was established in 1916, it rightfully credited the philosophical legacy of John Muir, but it also benefited from a legacy of federal managerial authority combined with public-relations genius – the legacy of Gifford Pinchot.

Natural Rivals offers a refreshing revisionary take on the origins of public lands and the two gifted men who, along with Theodore Roosevelt, were hugely important in changing a historical course that might have left no common lands for Americans. I recall the conclusion drawn by a historian in a film about the history of the wilderness idea in America I often used in a history of conservation class I taught. The gist of his point was that Gifford Pinchot’s work and ideas had led to much more wilderness than had John Muir’s because Pinchot had “saved” so much more land later designated part of the National Wilderness Preservation System than had Muir – more acres in national forests than in national parks.

This bothered me because it seemed to me that two men with big ideas had come along at a critical time for land in American history and had made a broad conservation movement possible with good outcomes for the nation. What if only one of them had been present? This made for a lively discussion in the class. Clayton’s analysis confirms my view when he says, “A Muir-Pinchot dichotomy becomes a useful hook on which to hang debates. It has great explanatory power – but its continuity is an illusion.” He continues to say, “If we could free public lands from the illusion of a preservation versus conservation dichotomy, we could free administrators to see public lands as a canvas for variable and changing visions of nature.”

Clayton offers a timely discussion as we are engaged in a battle like none since the days of Muir and Pinchot over public land values. One lesson he draws from his analysis is that, “to solve today’s challenges, we need a marriage of morality and capability.” Do we ever!

At one point Clayton notes that Aldo Leopold, who described a land ethic, was a forester, manager, scientist, and philosopher, and his ethic was “an expansion of Muir’s philosophy that Leopold began developing under Pinchot’s influence as a early Forest Service employee [which] cemented the connection between public lands and nature.” Anyone interested in the history and concerned about the future of America’s public lands should read this provocative and well-written book. Clayton offers new insights into the history underlying debates about public land today and suggests how we might move beyond the “politics-as-usual” approach that is no more helpful to us now than it was to  Muir and Pinchot in 1897.