A Midas of Sorts

I read somewhere once that over the course of human existence, we as a species have significantly and single-handedly altered the landscape of the entire planet. That there are very few spots, save the ocean floor, that are without some evidence of the human touch. I am thinking about this as I near the summit of the mountain, and when I poke my head above the tree line my first instinct is to dismiss such an extremist notion. Just look at all these trees, these rolling hills, these jagged rock faces, this horizon! I think, for a moment, that its a bit arrogant to consider the entire earth as reshaped by our existence. Look how much has been left untouched! Look at what we hasn't been subdued under our axes and plows and bulldozers! Lets be grateful!

And we should be, of course. We should thank our lucky stars that the valley isn't a dust bowl at this point. But nonetheless, as the minutes pass, I can see and hear humanity coming back into focus. Kind of like when you first turn off your bedroom light -- at first its pitch black but then gradually you start to see the outlines of furniture. But instead of bureaus and bookshelves, its roads carved into the new-growth trees, hacking up the forest like a farmer butchers an animal. The constant whirr of wheel on road drowning out the whoosh of leaves on wind. The graffiti vandalizing the cliffs, leaving permanent records of stoned-out teenagers partying stupidly close to the edge. "Dude, where's the beer?" "Smoke up! 6-28-95" "Haj hearts Jamie" "Can I feel your twat?"

(A modern day Lascaux. I wonder, despite the importance we confer on them, those famous stylized horses were equally trivial and frattish. Or maybe I'm diminishing the significance of these latest paintings and twenty thousand years from now arhcaeologists will discover these remains of a culture obsessed with sex, love and drugs and will use them to make theories about our relative intelligence.)

So I take back my original skepticism. Of course we have reshaped the landscape. In fact, we can no longer escape ourselves. Everything we touch is left with the residue of humanity, for better or for worse, and we have our hands in all manner of pots. Since we've chosen to to play the role of mini-gods, however, continually remaking the world in our image, maybe we should think twice before touching. Economist William Nordhaus once famously recommended minimal action on the problem of climate change, since the only sectors that would be noticeably affected were farming and forestry which contributed little to GNP. In the meantime, we have constructed a landscape divorced enough from the natural world, in which we can effectively produce our own climates (shopping malls, office buldings, etc.). So no need to worry. Touch all you want.

Bill McKibben, though, responds with a warning ominously reminiscent of greek mythology. "Well, its true that not many of us make our living as farmers anymore," he writes, "But its also true that, first thing in the morning, before we go to work in the software design cubicle, most of us prefer to eat breakfast." In other words, even if we think we've got the gift of transforming dirt and grease and blood into something precious, we should be mindful of the ways this is simultaneously a curse. I read somewhere once about a guy who thought he was King Shit for having this power, until he touched his dinner. You can't eat gold, he quickly discovered.