It’s Time To Redefine Wilderness

As the U.S. Wilderness Act celebrates its 60th anniversary this month, the term “wilderness” requires a significant update in the modern world.

The view from the peak of South Bubble in Acadia National Park, one that symbolizes the traditional definition of "wilderness." Photo by Emma Denes '25

Two summers ago, my family and I visited Acadia National Park in Maine, marking the vacation of a lifetime. I still think back fondly to the park’s coastal oasis, complete with lush evergreens towering right alongside a sprawling Atlantic Ocean. I distinctly remember my favorite moment — hiking to the top of the South Bubble peak, with the splendor of a panoramic view greeting me as far as the eye could see. The awe of the wilderness surrounded me on all sides. 

Wilderness. It’s a mighty word, one which the human psyche latches onto with strong emotions, from anxiety to astonishment. But in truth, wilderness is not what we believe it to be. 

This September commemorates National Wilderness Month, celebrating 60 years since the U.S. Wilderness Act of 1964 enshrined protection for millions of acres across the country. But six decades after the Act was signed — setting aside land and water through national parks, refuges and forests — we must rethink how we define wilderness in the 21st century.

According to the Act itself, wilderness is “an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain.” In tandem, the Merriam-Webster dictionary defines wilderness as “uncultivated and uninhabited by human beings.”

But is that truly the case?

National parks, the ultimate American wilderness areas, were inhabited by humans long before the government set them aside — after all, it is the government that forced Indigenous peoples off their homelands to establish the parks in the first place. All these years later, the national parks of today are anything but untouched by humans. From hitting golf balls into the Grand Canyon to taking selfies with wildlife at Yellowstone to dropping a bag of Cheetos at Carlsbad Caverns, it seems that even these supposedly untouched landscapes cannot escape the everlasting influence of our species.

And let’s not forget about climate change, which presents a longer-term threat. One 2018 study found that the average yearly temperature of national park area doubled from 1895 to 2010, compared to the average yearly temperature for the entire U.S. In a specific example, Acadia suffered from road and ecosystem damage earlier this year, brought upon by sea level rise and associated flooding. The next time I return, it will not be the same Acadia I witnessed two years ago, especially if greenhouse gas emissions cease to reduce and temperatures continue to rise.

In addition to climate mitigation and adaptation measures, perhaps what we really need is a seismic shift in the way we contemplate wilderness. 

In his seminal essay “The Trouble with Wilderness; or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature,” environmental historian William Cronon argues that we’ve got wilderness all wrong. No, it is not a sacred slice of the sublime or a frontier far removed from civilization, as we humans have psychologically cultivated it to be. Rather, as Cronon writes, “wildness (as opposed to wilderness) can be found anywhere.” Indeed, you can find nature everywhere you look, from the feathered friends at your bird feeder to the trees that line city sidewalks.

Of course, witnessing nature in a national park is likely much more awe-inspiring than your typical environmental experience — it is no wonder why over 300 million people visited the parks last year. But it’s worth considering what is possible when we stop to smell the roses in our own backyards.

It’s what German biologist Jakob von Uexküll called “Umwelt,” or the understanding that each organism perceives the environment in its own unique way. It’s what conservationist Aldo Leopold called a “land ethic,” or the capacity to consider all animals, plants and ecosystems as part of one community. Today, it’s what Indigenous plant ecologist Robin Wall Kimmerer calls the “responsibility to life.” And it is a responsibility we all share. 

We breathe the oxygen produced by photosynthetic plants, drink the water sourced from rivers and lakes and enjoy the natural beauty that surrounds us, from hikes in the woods to days at the beach. As an environmental journalist, I cover the connections between nature and human nature all the time — from sustainable fashion to offshore wind, we need nature to survive and thrive, but nature also needs us, so it can do the same.

Safeguarding the natural world doesn’t require us to remove ourselves from it. Instead, we must re-enter the planet with a newfound sense of care and cooperation, one that cements our place as stewards of the wild wonders located in every corner of the country. With the climate and biodiversity crises looming above us, that may just be enough to start us on the path towards a fuller love for life on Earth.