Last week, in an attempt to keep its services current, Parks Canada announced it will soon begin offering wireless Internet in as many as 50 national parks.
The backlash was swift and unforgiving.
Most of it followed the standard lines: It’s pathetic, it’s sad, it’s the end of civilization as we know it, it’s emblematic of this generation’s inability to unplug and engage with the “real world,” it has doomed the concept of the family vacation, etc.
The pristine beauty of the natural world has now, alas, been forever tarnished by the planned presence of Wi-Fi hotspots.
Most of the outrage has (ironically) taken place on social-media sites such as Facebook, as people declare that they are infuriated or disgusted by Parks Canada’s decision.
I’ve been surprised by the vitriol, although I think I understand it.
The backlash isn’t so much an anti-technology thing as it is a deep anxiety that nature and technology should remain separate. For some, the authenticity of a “real” natural experience is somehow threatened by the presence of digital technology, as though it will erode the “true meaning” of the great outdoors.
But “authentic” has always been artificial.
When we hike, most of us use trails that have been blazed for us, with specifically designed shoes and compasses and walking sticks. When we camp, we use facilities, and we use a car or a kayak to get there. We take pictures with our cameras and light fires with our matches.
The technologies we use to enjoy nature are all human-made. Even the concept of nature as a thing to be enjoyed recreationally is the product of a specific cultural and temporal mindset.
The nature/technology binary just isn’t on.
Technology’s not the problem, it’s just that this new technology means that my experiences in the great outdoors might look different from yours. And that’s scary, especially when we romanticize nature as universal and unchanging.
Nature is a place for nostalgia, and we don’t like that changing.
But there’s a mentality in fan culture that says you shouldn’t knock people for how they choose to enjoy something. If I read Life of Pi for the imagery, it doesn’t hurt my enjoyment of the novel to know that someone else reads it for the plot. The way someone else enjoys a thing has no impact on the way you enjoy it.
If someone Instagrams their selfie in front of Lake Louise, that will in no way injure the sacred moment you saw it for the first time with your estranged father. You know who else has been to Lake Louise? Hundreds of thousands of other people. It’s the first image that pops up when you Google “Rockies.” You cannot protect Lake Louise from the Internet — the Internet’s already been.
It can be scary, knowing that other people are experiencing something you love in a way that’s completely foreign to you. It can make you think that you’re the only one who really “gets” it, that you’ve tapped into some deep, hidden meaning that’s evading everyone else. When something is special to us, we get possessive, and we don’t like seeing other people “doing it wrong.” But there’s no wrong way to enjoy nature.
(Providing, of course, that you don’t litter.)
If you don’t want to bring your phone with you, then leave your phone at home.
I think Internet in parks really isn’t such a bad idea. In the first place, better reception in popular areas will mean that people are safer: They’ll have access to maps and park directions and can call for help in an emergency. That’s already great.
In the second place, the Internet is just another service, like potable water and pit toilets. By providing that service, Parks Canada is stepping up its game and its relevancy. Aren’t we complaining that kids today don’t care about the world around them and don’t get out enough? Allowing people to update their Facebook profile with a picture at the top of Mount Temple isn’t such a terrible way to get people to care about our parks.
And in a decade that has seen significant challenges to the protection of our natural spaces, getting people interested is the first step to preserving them.
