O’er the Land of the Free

To preface, I do recognize that we were camping on private property, and I recognize the legalities, faults, and risks of this scenario.

We were huddled around the stove making ramen and beans, a staple dinner in our three-or-four-meal rotation. We’d had a long day of cycling and rolled into our camp right before we lost the last light of day, so we were all rather exhausted. As we sat there, patiently watching the flames against the large, heavy pot that we’ve deemed to be an absolute necessity, we began to hear the sounds of tires on the gravel road behind us. Anne and Sarah both looked at me with a fear in their eyes I’d never seen before, and I can only imagine I returned this gaze. We moved quickly to get out of sight: Sarah turned off her stove and I lunged on top of the bike light we were using to illuminate our camp. The sound grew louder, and the culprit came into view: a beat-up, off-white pick-up truck with a serious load of equipment in the bed. We all got low to the ground as it rolled by. It slowed, and I started to feel my heart beating in my chest. Before the truck was fully out of view, we watched it come to a complete stop. I felt my heart beating in my throat as I subconsciously held my breath to maintain complete silence. The dozens of “PRIVATE MINING CLAIM” and “NO TRESPASSING” signs posted on the trees between us and the truck felt like an embarrassing slap in the face in that moment: there was enough signage that we couldn’t even begin to play dumb if questioned. Just thirty minutes earlier, we’d felt like kids in a candy shop rolling by this seemingly perfect camp spot, it felt obvious that we should camp there. But just then, it felt like a huge mistake.

“We are in rural Oregon after all,” I thought to myself, “and I’m certain that whatever man is driving that truck has a gun on him.” I imagined the sound of him cocking it, the leaves crunching beneath his feet as he approached, and what yell he’d bellow at us. “We need to make noise before he starts shooting,” I thought. I imagined all the things we might say, what we might do, and what he might do... none of it ended in anything ideal. In the midst of this frantic mental scramble, the brake lights of the truck flickered off, and the vehicle slowly rolled away. We all let out sighs of pure relief— I think I breathed for the first time in five minutes— and then sat quietly for a moment, never truly having felt like our own lives were at the whim of another person quite like this before.

I didn’t entirely know what to feel in that moment, but after filling my stomach with ramen and beans and settling down in my sleeping bag under the stars that night, I came to terms with my emotions. I couldn’t help but lean into this deep-rooted anger bubbling up inside me. After several days of cycling through beautifully expansive forests riddled with signs declaring “private property” warning us to “keep out,” my frustration grew, and the truck scenario was just my tipping point. I was left with several unanswered questions. Who is to say which individuals get to rope off miles and miles of land for only their use? How can the Right to Roam exist in Sweden, Norway, Scotland, Finland, etcetera, etcetera, but cease to exist in the United States? Who is to say who owns the forest when we exist on stolen land? What does land ownership truly even mean when we are but temporary blips on Earth’s timeline? Of course, I know the answer to these somewhat rhetorical questions, but I will never understand the fundamentals behind them.

These past few weeks have provided me with the privilege to constantly admire the beauty of this country, but I am consistently and rather abruptly reminded of our ever-present, greedy, colonial American ideals.

Ever since the evening of our truck encounter, the words “Land of the Free” have played on a loop in my mind. I continue to wonder who exactly the phrase seeks to include and what free even means. Miriam Webster offers fifteen different definitions of the word free, including “not subject to the control or domination of another,” “enjoying civil and political liberty,” and “not subject to restriction.” Although rather vague, it is hard to say which of these definitions our considerate and compassionate white male ancestors meant 250 years ago at the conception of our country.

There does currently exist an irony in that the same modern-day Americans posting these “No Trespassing” signs are the same folks touting freedom… I am curious how they’d define it. I can only hope that modern-day Americans take the chance to redefine “freedom,” as it seems this word rings true in fences and walls that separate acreage from their neighbors and their community.

I understand what a privilege freedom is. I experience it every day, especially while riding my bike— I would argue that I am more free now than ever before. But throughout my life, I’ve consulted others about my own freedom. I’ve questioned it, and have oftentimes been dismissed with stories of women in other parts of the world who have minimal or nonexistent autonomy (I could go on and on about this and the poison that is patriarchy, but for the sake of this blog post, I will bite my tongue). However, freedom is not an all-or-nothing metric, and is quite subjective and variable. Freedom also requires continuous sacrifice; it can hardly exist without communal effort. Freedom resides in community and shared resources and thrives in togetherness, as personal liberty cannot exist without collective liberty.

I sure hope Central Oregonians catch on, and I yearn for the day that these individuals, too, find their freedom.