The Last American Man (11 page)

“And why waste perfectly good meat?” he went on. “And the fact that it was January was really to our advantage, because the
temperature was so low. This meant the meat would have been preserved nicely in the cold ground. Whereas, if it had been the
middle of summer, I might have just let it go, because the meat might have been spoiling in the sun and been covered with
maggots and insects. I must have taken all this into consideration and realized that the meat was still good and that it was
a good teaching opportunity and then I must have decided that it would’ve been a waste to just throw it out, see? So when
I asked her to bring the bones back, I was only being logical.”

Concluding with the hope that this all made more sense to me now, Eustace wished me a pleasant evening and hung up.

“What is this modern-day Mountain Man trying to prove?” asked one of the many newspapermen who visited Eustace Conway in his
teepee during those college years. Then he quoted Eustace’s reply: “Nothing. Most people like to live in houses and watch
television and go to movies. I like to live in my teepee and watch the rain or snow falling and listen to the language of
nature. If they feel that money and materialism are the major virtues of life, how can I sit in judgment of them? All I ask
in return is the same consideration for my life.”

But it wasn’t quite that simple. Eustace was asking for much more than the inalienable right to be left alone to live his
life in peace away from society’s judging eye. Being left alone can be pretty easy—don’t talk to anyone, don’t go out in public,
don’t invite newspapermen into your home, don’t tell the world how quiet the sound of the rainfall is, and don’t write papers
informing people how to transform their lives. If you want to be left alone, move into the woods and sit there, still and
quiet. That’s called becoming a hermit, and until you start mailing out letter bombs, it’s a highly effective means of being
ignored. If that’s really what you want.

But that’s not what Eustace wanted. What he wanted was the opposite of what he’d told the reporter: he wanted people to sit
in judgment of him, because he believed he knew of a better way of life for all Americans, one that people should judge with
great care in order to see the truth of his vision. He wanted the people who watched TV and movies to see how he lived, to
ask questions about his life, witness how content and healthy he was, give his ideas serious contemplation, and try them.
He wanted to reach out to them—to all of them.

Because that’s what Men of Destiny do, and Eustace Conway still had his eye on that Man of Destiny title. As did his mother.
When he graduated from college in 1984, with honors, Mrs. Conway wrote her son to congratulate him on his achievement and
to remind him that the pressure was not off yet.

“You have reached a new milestone in your journey—one of outstanding accomplishment from long and hard work,” she wrote. “As
one who best understands and appreciates the circumstances under which you attained a college degree with two major studies,
I applaud and congratulate you with great pride and awe! But remember, education should be an ongoing process until you die.
You have just done a great piece of groundwork—may you also seek wisdom which is greater than knowledge. I pray for God’s
guidance, protection, and blessings on you as you continue your journey on this good earth. Your proud and devoted Mother.”

Not that Eustace needed to be reminded. He was already impatient. “I want to do something great, to feel that I’ve
made it,
that I’ve
arrived
,” he wrote in his journal.

And he was becoming more troubled by what he saw. There was a particularly sad incident one night when a gang of local rednecks
came down to his teepee to ask if they could borrow some .22 shells to finish off a big raccoon they’d treed up on the ridge
behind where Eustace was living. Seemed they’d been out drinking and hunting and having themselves a ball. But they were such
incompetent hunters, they admitted to Eustace, that they’d fired at the raccoon more than twenty times without killing it
and getting it out of that tree. Surely the stubborn bugger was wounded up there. Could Eustace give them the ammo to help
them finish off the sumbitch once and for all?

Eustace hated everything about this scene—the dogs baying, the cacophony of gunfire (“It sounded like a war up there,” he
mourned later in his journal), the ineptitude of the men, and their total disregard for the animal’s spirit. How could they
fire away at a living creature as if it were a plastic target in a carnival game and then leave it to suffer while they dicked
around for an hour looking for more ammo? And what kind of sloppy bungling jackasses could miss their shot
twenty
times? And, by the way, why should he have to deal with these idiots invading his privacy in the middle of the night, when
he was trying to live far away from human society?

Silent on all these concerns, Eustace got up, got dressed. He didn’t have any .22 shells, but he took his black powder rifle
and followed the dogs and men and the moonlit forest path to the tree. One shot from his antique gun, and the raccoon was
cleanly finished.

“It wasn’t until I skinned him,” he wrote, “that I realized mine was the only hole in the skin.”

The rednecks had never even grazed the animal. Not once in twenty shots. Not that the good ol’ boys cared. All they wanted
was the pelt, which Eustace skinned for them and handed over so that they could sell it. He almost wept as he skinned the
animal, and he kept the meat to eat later, solemnly thanking the raccoon for giving over its life. These rednecks weren’t
about to eat no damn raccoon meat.

The whole incident depressed him. The disregard for nature. The greed. The stupidity. The waste. The disregard for another
being’s spirit, the lack of reverence for nature’s laws—it all sickened Eustace,whose mission on earth was to uphold the ancient
ideas about life’s inherent sacredness. But where do you start with people so callow and oblivious? People who shoot at animals
for drunken sport and don’t even want the meat?

“Hell damn fire,” he wrote in his journal. “What am I to do? They would just write me off as a Grizzly Adams nature freak
if I tried to explain it to them.”

And that was another thing bugging Eustace. He was getting a little tired of being seen as an eccentric, some Grizzly Adams
nature freak, when he had so much more to offer the world. He was becoming more contemplative and agitated and he was no longer
gaining satisfaction by making his own clothes or shooting his game with a blowgun. He was ready for something bigger, something
bolder.

“I need something new, fresh, alive, stimulating,” he wrote in his journal. “I need life, close-up, tooth and claw. Alive,
real, power, exertion. There are more real, fulfilling, and satisfying things to do than sitting around talking to a bunch
of good old boys about the same old things, year after year. I don’t want to
talk
about doing things, I want to
be
doing things, and I want to know the realities and limits of life by their measure! I don’t want my life to be nothing, to
not make a difference. And people tell me all the time how I
am
doing so much, but I don’t feel I’m even scratching the surface. Hell no, I’m not! And life is so short, I could be gone tomorrow.
Vision, concentration, center . . . what? How to do it? What to do? Can I? Where do I go? Escape isn’t the answer. There is
only one way—destiny, destiny. To trust destiny.”

It wasn’t enough for him, in other words, to sit around his teepee working on moccasins and listening to the rainfall. And,
speaking of his teepee, he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life moving it from one piece of someone’s land to another
piece of someone else’s land. Every place he had ever set up camp got sold out from under him and developed into neighborhoods
right before his eyes. It was dreadful, having this happen. It was like standing on a sand bar and watching the tide lift.
Where could he go that would be invulnerable to commercial development? And he wanted to keep teaching, but on his own terms
and not necessarily for the forty-five minutes allotted to him by the principal of whatever public school he was visiting
that day. He needed more challenges,more power, more people to reach. He needed more
land
.

Years later, when people would ask Eustace Conway why he lived up at Turtle Island and spent so much energy conserving his
thousand acres, he would deliver his speech of explanation. It eventually became one of the most powerful segments of his
public presentations.

“There is a book I used to love as a child,” he would begin, “called
Return to Shady Grove
. It’s about these animals who live in a wonderful forest. Life is perfect and happy and safe for them, until one day the
bulldozers come and tear up their home to build a road for humans. They have nowhere to go, and their homes have been destroyed.
But then one day the animals get on the boxcar of a train and head West. When they get there, they find a new forest, just
like the home they lost, and everyone lives happily ever after.

“I could always relate to that book, because everywhere I ever lived has been destroyed. When I was a small child, I lived
in Columbia, South Carolina, near the wilds and the woods and the swamps. Then the developers came and raped the land and
destroyed it. So my family moved to Gastonia,North Carolina, where they bought a house bordering on hundreds of acres of land,
divided by a clean and beautiful stream. I fell in love with that forest. I knew that forest better than I have ever known
any place, because I spent every day there, playing and exploring. I enjoyed that land during my whole young life. I built
forts, developed trails, trained myself to run at breakneck speed through the woods and to roll if I fell and jump up and
run some more. I climbed through the underbrush and swung from tree to tree, like Tarzan. I knew the textures of the leaves
and the warmth of the soil. I knew the sounds, color, and sensations of the forest.

“And then one day the surveyor’s stakes started to appear all through the forest. I didn’t know what the stakes were for,
but I knew they were bad. I knew it was a violation of nature, and I tried to pull up the stakes wherever they appeared. But
I was a child—how could I stop it? The developers tore out my forest and built hundreds and hundreds of homes slowly over
the whole area until the land I loved was leveled and the stream was just polluted water. They named the development Gardner
Woods, but it was a lie. There were no more woods. Gardner Woods had been decimated. The only thing left of the woods was
the name.

“Then I moved into a teepee on a piece of land owned by some friends near the hardwood forest of Allen’s Knob, and I lived
there until the developers cleared away the forest for homes. Then I found an old mountain man in Boone named Jay Miller,
and he let me put my teepee up on his beautiful Appalachian land. I loved it there. I lived on the side of Howard’s Knob,
a forest filled with bears, turkeys, and ginseng root. There was a natural spring just outside my teepee where I would drink
every morning. And it was wonderful there until the day old Jay Miller decided to chase the mighty dollar, and he sold his
land for lumber. And the timber company came and set up their sawmill right near me—a mill that got closer and closer as they
dropped to the ground every last tree that stood between me and them. I was finishing my senior year of college at the time,
and I literally had to wear earplugs in order to study for my exams, the saw was so loud. By the time I left, the forest I
had loved, where I had gotten my life and food and clothing, was nothing but a vast field of stumps. And the beautiful spring
where I used to drink was spoiled and silted.

“So what was I to do? That’s when I realized that the moral of
Return
to Shady Grove
was a lie. It’s a bald-faced lie invented to reassure children that there is always another forest for another home somewhere
out there in the West, just over the hill somewhere. It’s a lie that says it’s OK that the bulldozers keep coming. But it’s
not OK, and we need to teach people that it’s a lie, because the bulldozers will keep coming until every tree is gone. There
is no place that is safe. And when I realized that? Well, that’s when I decided to get a forest of my own and fight to the
death anyone who ever tried to destroy it. That was the only answer and the most important thing I could do with my life on
this earth.”

It was time to find Turtle Island.

“The land,” he wrote in his diary throughout the early 1980s, as though he had to be reminded. “I need to get the land. The
land! I dream it. I want it. I will sacrifice for it.”

CHAPTER FIVE

This is the place!

—Brigham Young, on first seeing the valley

of Great Salt Lake

A
merica has always lent herself generously—lent both her body and her capacious character—to the visions of utopians. It
could be argued that anyone who ever came to America of free will has been a junior utopian, an individual with a personal
idea about creating a measure of paradise in this New World, no matter how modest that idea might be. Of course, it could
also be argued that this country had been a utopia for millennia before the Europeans arrived and started wrecking everything
to suit their rigid plans for the space. But consider how the country must have looked to those early Europeans—free, endless,
empty. Surely it was tempting to think about the kind of a society one could create here.

Of course Americans didn’t originate the idea of a utopia. As usual, that would be the Greeks. And Europeans were scheming
of perfect societies since before the Renaissance. Sir Thomas More, Tommaso Campanella, and Francis Bacon had their visions,
as, later, did Rabelais, Montaigne, Hobbes. But what these men didn’t do was turn their blue- prints into reality. They were
thinkers and writers, not charismatic leaders. Besides, there was no place on the battle-weary map of the Old World where
one could try to found an actual utopia. Politically, geographically, and socially, it was an impossibility. So these were
men who designed ships when they’d never seen an ocean. They could imagine their dream vessels to be of any size or shape
they wanted; the things would never have to set sail.

But when America was discovered—or, rather, when the concept of America was invented—that’s when thinkers and writers and
charismatic leaders alike started to get themselves in trouble. Because this was the place to do it. If you could get yourself
some land and talk enough people into joining you, you could establish your paradise. And so, in addition to the grand utopian
schemes of men like Jefferson (schemes that ultimately became known as “government”), we got dozens of smaller and weirder
utopian schemes scattered over the land.

Between 1800 and 1900, more than a hundred such communities rose in waves of enthusiasm across America. The Inspirationist
Society of Amana was first envisioned in Germany by a stocking-weaver, a carpenter, and an illiterate serving maid. But their
dream became reality only when the Amanists came to the United States, in 1842, and bought five thousand acres outside Buffalo.
This strict, mostly silent, highly skilled, sober, and well-organized population thrived, and eventually sold their land at
a profit and moved to Iowa, where they prospered until 1932. The Shakers also flourished, longer than anyone might have expected
of a celibate community. And the industrious Rappites of Harmony impressively constructed, in their first year in Pennsylvania’s
Conoquenessing Valley, fifty log houses, a church, a school, a gristmill, and a barn, in addition to clearing 150 acres of
land.

But most of America’s model communities didn’t do so well. Generally, they crumbled under the decidedly nonutopian realities
of bankruptcy, internal power struggles, irresoluble philosophical disagreements, and basic human misery. New Harmony was
founded in Indiana around 1825 by Robert Owen, who called his project “a new empire of goodwill,” which would spread “from
Community to Community, from State to State, from Continent to Continent, finally overshadowing the whole earth, shedding
light, fragrance and abundance, intelligence and happiness, upon the sons of man.” Hundreds upon hundreds of devotees followed
Owen, but he had no sound economic plan for his community, and he quickly slunk back to England when things started falling
apart. His followers went through five constitutions in a single year, split into four rival communities, and finally imploded
under the pressure of a dozen lawsuits.

Bishop Hill was founded by Eric Janson, a Swede, who brought his eight hundred followers to America in 1846 to form a theoretical
socialist community. The believers spent their first winter in caves in Illinois, where 144 of them died of cholera in a single
fortnight, while Janson watched over them, cheerfully saying, “Go, die in peace” as his flock keeled over, one after another.
The Mountain Cove Community of Spiritualists set up their perfect society in rural Virginia, exactly on the spot, they calculated,
where the Garden of Eden had once stood. Like Adam and Eve, however, the Spiritualists were cast out of Eden before they knew
what hit them; their experiment lasted only two years. The carefree Fruitlanders were founded by Bronson Alcott, a charming
believer in “deep discussion,” who thought that work should be done only when the “spirit dictates.” The Fruitlanders may
have set a national utopia-dismantling record; their project lasted over the summer of 1843, until everyone went home when
it started getting cold.

The Icarians hurried over here from France. Their leader, Étienne Cabet, sent them off with this proclamation: “The third
of February, 1848, will be an epoch-making date, for on that day, one of the grandest acts in the history of the human race
was accomplished—the advance guard, departing on the ship
Rome
has left for Icaria . . . May the winds and waves be propitious to you, soldiers of humanity!” Maybe no soldiers of humanity
ever suffered quite as hard as the Icarians, who ended up on 100,000 acres of hot swampland outside New Orleans, decimated
by malaria, fatigue, starvation, desertion, and death by lightning.

Still, everyone’s favorite utopian has to be Charles Fourier. Fourier had it all figured out, as he explained in several enormous
books. His followers sprang up everywhere across the United States in the mid-nineteenth century, especially in New England,
where a severe economic crisis had put hordes of men out of work. Of the forty separate Fourierist societies formed in America,
though, only three lasted for more than two years. Looking back on the phenomenon, it’s hard to imagine that Fourier’s ideas
could have spread anywhere beyond the recesses of his own beautifully insane head. Yet there must have been something in the
alluring orderliness of his vision that reassured Americans when they needed it most, when people were seeking tidy answers.

The only hope for mankind, Charles Fourier had proclaimed quite clearly, lay in a highly organized social structure—almost
insect-like in its detail and hierarchy—of human associations. The smallest association, called a Group, would comprise seven
people, two of whom would hover at each wing to represent “ascending” and “descending” extremes of taste, while the other
three would stay in the middle to maintain equilibrium. In the ideal society, there would be a Group for every occupation
(raising children, tending poultry, growing roses, etc.). Five Groups of seven made a Series, each of which, again, would
have a center and two wings. And a Phalanx—the ultimate in human organization— was to be constructed of several Series joined
together to create battalions of between 1620 and 1800 individuals. Each Phalanx would cover three square acres of gardens
and orchards, and the members of each Phalanx would reside in a splendid Phalanstery, consisting of bedrooms, ballrooms, council
chambers, libraries, and nurseries.

In Fourier’s perfect society, work would be valued according to its usefulness. Therefore, the most unpleasant and necessary
work (sewage maintenance, grave digging) would earn the highest pay and the highest esteem. People would work according to
their natural affinities. Since children, for example, have a natural affinity for digging around in dirt and filth, they
would become special garbage-scavenging groups called the Little Hordes, and they would earn high pay, as well as taking their
place at the heads of every parade, where they would regularly be honored by the other citizens with the venerable “Salute
of Esteem.”

Fourier went so far as to claim that he had the entire workings of the universe figured out, in addition to merely understanding
the workings of the perfect human society. Every planet, he said, lasted for 80,000 years, and these epochs were naturally
divided into stages. When the Earth entered its eighth stage, he speculated that men would grow tails equipped with eyes,
that dead bodies would be transformed into “aromatic airs,” that the polar icecaps would emit perfumed dew, that six new moons
would form, and that unpleasant beasts would be replaced by their harmless opposites (called “anti-sharks,” for instance,
or “anti-fleas”). And it would be during this episode—the glorious eighth stage of Earth—that the Fourier Phalanxes would
at last spread over the entire planet, until there were exactly 2,985,984 of them, united in one brotherhood and one language.

So. As you see, one can take one’s utopian ideals absolutely as far as one wants.

Still, there seems to have been a time for this kind of dreaming, and that time was the nineteenth century. By 1900, not only
had most of America’s idealistic communities vanished, but nobody was talking anymore about buying up land in the middle of
nowhere and creating a model society with a handful of believers. As with the decline of so much else in this country, the
industrial age was probably to blame. The mass production of goods, the move from an agrarian to an urban economy, the decline
of individual craftsmanship—all were eroding away Americans’ idea of self-sufficiency. It was getting harder to believe that
one person (or one congregation, or one Phalanx) could break off from the big machine of America. The grid had begun to emerge.
Or the noose had begun to tighten, if you prefer to feel that way about it. By the turn of the century, American culture—loud,
strong, established, uniform, ubiquitous—hardly seemed worth trying to alter. It would not be until the 1960s, in fact, that
Americans would again summon the energy (or the madness) to attempt once more the mass formation of utopian societies.

The 1960s, of course, really began in the 1950s. It all started with the rise of the Beat movement, which brought a change
in music, a questioning of society, a serious interest in experimentation with drugs and sex, and a general attitude of resistance
to conventionality. By the middle of the 1950s, those old romantic nineteenth-century American ideas about separating oneself
from the corruptions of larger society were starting to look good again. Poets like Allen Ginsberg (heir to Walt Whitman)
and writers like Jack Kerouac (who called himself an “urban Thoreau”) set forth to redefine and rediscover ways to live in
America without slogging through what Kerouac called the endless system of “work, produce, consume, work, produce, consume
. . .”

The Beats are often associated with city life, particularly with San Francisco. But in the classic nineteenth-century style
of Teddy Roosevelt, the Beat poets dutifully turned their backs on the sissifying influence of cities to seek more rugged
experiences and make real men of themselves. The poet Lew Welch quit a solid copy-editing job in Chicago in the early 1960s
and became a hermit in the foothills of the Sierra Mountains. The young Jack Kerouac found work in the National Forest Service,
manning a fire lookout in the Cascade Mountains. (He also worked on a merchant marine ship and was a brakeman on the Southern
Pacific Railroad.) Allen Ginsberg and the poet Gary Snyder took jobs on ships in the 1940s and 1950s. (“I’ve held employment
on all levels of society,” boasted Snyder. “I can pride myself on the fact that I worked nine months on a tanker at sea and
nobody once ever guessed I had been to college.”)

The Beats were frustrated by the numbing consumer values of contemporary America and found the wilderness and manual labor
to be fine ways to, as Kerouac said, “work the blood clots right out of existence.” It was back to the frontier for cleansing
all over again. By the middle of the 1960s, these ideas were spreading among a wider and wider range of American youth. Kerouac’s
novels alone sent no end of young men scrambling across the country to find their destinies, but
Walden
—a long-neglected work celebrating both nature and nonconformity— was also rediscovered around this time, as were the essays
of the great nineteenth-century naturalist John Muir. A counterculture revolution was brewing once more, and on the heels
of that resistance came, almost inevitably, the new utopias.

From 1965 to 1975, tens of thousands of young Americans tried their hands at idealistic communal-living experiments. The communes
were more colorful and outlandish than their nineteenth-century counterparts had been. Most failed quickly, often comically,
although it’s hard to not feel affection for their high idealistic notions.

There was the famous Drop City of Colorado, founded by some wild poverty-loving hippie artists, who built structures out of
bottle caps and tarp (I’m not kidding) and whose short-lived utopia was filled with “all kinds of drum music and bell ringing,
jingling, jangling, and chanting.” Drop City’s founders so loathed rules and judgments that they insisted on accepting anybody
and everybody into their utopia. Which is why the place eventually burned itself out as a crash pad for drug addicts and scary
biker gangs. The same fate struck the good-hearted Californians of Gorda Mountain, who founded a wide-open community in 1962,
anticipating that their welcoming policy would attract lots of artists and dreamers. Instead, the commune had to close in
1968 after being overrun by junkies, derelicts, runaways, and criminals.

The great LSD guru Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters founded a casual, miniature utopia in his California home (although
Kesey eventually grew so tired of his community, calling it nothing more than “a communal lie,” that he put the whole crowd
on buses to Woodstock in 1969, with strict orders to never come back). Timothy Leary founded a more elaborate psychedelic
utopia. His was on a lush estate in Millbrook, New York, which had once belonged to Andrew Mellon’s family. Leary’s experiment
was described as “a school, a commune, and a house party of unparalleled dimensions,” and—while serious academics did come
to Millbrook to discuss culture and poetry—nobody did the chores, and the dream disintegrated by 1965.