Recreational Tourism The Paper

Running Head: WE PROTECT WHAT WE
LOVE 1
We Protect What We Love:
Recreational Tourism Toward Conservation
Clarcie R. Howell
Arizona State University

WE PROTECT WHAT WE LOVE 2
Abstract
David Brower of the Sierra Club always held that his biggest regret was losing the stretch of the
Colorado river through Glen Canyon to its namesake dam in Arizona. River expedition guides on
the upper Colorado Plateau see Brower as a hero rather than a shame. He saved Echo Park (the
historical and beautiful confluence of the Green and Yampa Rivers) from the same fate as Glen
Canyon through a vigilance to the idea that people save what they love. This study assesses the
effectiveness of recreational tourism in exposing people to the wilderness; people who might not
otherwise understand or protect nature. In the future, as our globe’s more than seven billion
inhabitants continue to move farther and farther into the technology and convenience of cities, a
majority of the population will continue to lose easy access to nature, making it hard for them to
understand the importance of nature conservation. Recreational tourism traditionally caters to
city-dwellers who don’t, on their own, visit remote landscapes. This study is largely
ethnographic, including interviews with both tourists and tour guides and using a four-day river
expedition to contextualize the learning process for recreational tourists. Each representative
attests to the role of experience in protection. Data provides a look at protected areas, past
conservation struggles, current conservation struggles, and educational tendencies. The project
maintains that future conservation projects, like those of the past, will need the recreational
tourism industry to introduce city dwellers to those lands worth protecting.
Keywords: Recreational Tourism, Conservation, Exposure, Context

In the sixties and seventies when Edward Abbey was driving his Parks Service issued
Chevrolet Blazer around Arches National Park, he couldn’t help but be protective of his own
solitude in the interest of such a natural, beautiful, peaceful wonder. In 2016, Arches National
Park is the quintessential “wilderness” for tourists: it’s available year-round from a major
highway; close to upscale hotels in the small, tourist town of Moab, Utah; and beautifully remote
with an almost unpolluted night sky and vistas of red rock clear to the horizon. This modern
access and proximity to commerce was Abbey’s biggest fear. After all, commerce threatens daily
to overtake public lands for use in industry. There’s still a delicate balance between progress and
protection because Abbey, like many of us in the West, worried about non-“natives” destroying
the part of nature that make it so appealing: solitude.
Abbey was, of course, an anarchist. He was unbending to the new-age tourist who
enjoyed modern conveniences and would rather write them off than greet them with beer. I’d like
to humbly propose that each institution and every Starbucks-loving tourist is part of the
conservation effort. This is a study about contextualizing nature for tourists to convert them to
nature lovers. The best way to do that is to delve into a four-day expedition in the canyons of the
Colorado Plateau, which is just what I do here. For the past ten years I’ve guided river
expeditions for a small, owner-operated company in Colorado. Like Abbey, I love my job, but
unlike Abbey, I like it because of the challenge of interpretation rather than the Government-
backed loafing he mentions in Desert Solitaire (1968). I love the people. I love to watch their
eyes light up when they enter a canyon for the first time. Guides and public lands employees
alike have the task to educate anyone who comes into our realm; to help them to see why we
love these lands. Our job, then, is not to hide wilderness or fight the System, or cater only to

tourists who are willing to give up modern convenience, but to make sure that every tourist who
comes to us falls in love with the landscape.
Day One
An expedition like this takes months of preparation and planning for the tourist, who we
will welcome to the river as a guest. For the guest, the first leg of the journey was a conversation
with my boss, Tom Kleinschnitz, on the phone. After 31 years owning Adventure Bound River
Expeditions, Kleinshnitz still gets the same questions about creature comforts in the wilderness.
He says, “‘Where do I poop,’ is something that’s really on the phone” (Personal Communication,
February 11, 2016). It may seem like a silly question, but most people on our trips are
unfamiliar with the outdoors and it is shocking to leave city lights and modern convenience for
mother nature. As guides, it’s our job to make sure the clients we do entertain are well taken care
of. Over the four days of a trip, we’ll introduce them to inescapable, raw nature and we’re tasked
with not only making sure they’re comfortable, but also with the increasingly important job of
interpretation of natural lands: how they’re threatened and why we must take care of them. My
safety speech works out some of these troubles for guests to ease their minds with a few jokes
about pooping in a box for four days and crawling into a sandy sleeping bag with a sunburn.
“This is nature,” I tell them; “and we’ll have to adapt.”
Cell phone coverage is another thing that is really on the phone for Kleinschnitz in recent
years (no pun intended). The Verizon Wireless Coverage Map (2015) shows that, besides a few
dead areas, coverage from the Atlantic Ocean to the Rocky Mountains is ubiquitous. In the West,
just like much more of the night sky is visible, much less of the country has service everywhere.
Some people look for the spots of white on the map to plan their vacations, others can’t imagine
dead zones. In one day last summer, Kleinschnitz received two separate calls regarding cell

phone coverage from Grandmothers planning multi-day trips. His obvious reply to both was
“well, there is none,” to which the first grandmother replied, “well we can’t take the trip, then.”
The second grandmother, whom Kleinschnitz was sure he’d lose too, replied, “good, we’ll book
it.”
Getting excited about unplugging and the act of pulling the plug are separate, though and
many guests are still surprised to be in such desolate areas when they arrive at the desolate “put-
ins” where we start our trips. Many of them, while excited, are getting used to a whole new
definition of remote. Sam Williams, who caters to the one-day wilderness crowd as general
manager at Powderhorn Ski Resort on the Grand Mesa, recognizes that backcountry means
something different to most of our guests than it does to seasoned outdoorsmen. He recognizes
“Someone from New York City that’s never been out of New York City would land in our
[regional] airport and go, ‘okay, I’m in the wilderness’” (Personal Communication, February 15,
2016).
For the client Williams describes, the arrival at a boat ramp is, if nothing else, an intense
learning experience. According to Thomas Aastrup Rømer (2013), “experience is composed of a
passive and an active side. You do something in the environment (the active side) and the
environment does something to you (the passive side)” (p. 646). John Dewey was first to develop
this theory in Democracy and Education (1916), which poses that passive learning happens
through the senses whereby humans learn passively when they sense objects (p. 321). When a
guest gets to a boat ramp, he is on sensory overload. Over the next four days, he’ll be exposed to
raw nature, including 12-hour-a-day sun at an elevation of 3500-5000 feet above sea level;
temperatures that can range from the forties if it’s raining to 110 degrees in the heart of Cataract

Canyon; weather that can blow, rain, snow, or burn and dehydrate; and a general lack of shelter
besides a thin layer of Gore-Tex.
Soon enough, we are on the the water and the guests experience raw beauty along with
raw nature. Dewey proposes, “In general, every stimulus directs activity” (1916, p. 1). The sun
directs them to put on sunscreen, but the massive canyon walls evoke a different activity out of
each guest. The passive guest takes the opportunity to experience rather than act, craning his
neck to take in the expanse of red, Uinta formation quartzite at the entrance to The Canyon of
Lodore, or butte after butte in the Island in the Sky region north of Cataract Canyon. The active
guest puts me on question overload: Does the wind always blow like this here? What kinds of
wildlife will we see? Where did these rocks come from? I bite my tongue before coming up with
lies about man-eating, underwater scorpions; they genuinely don’t have experiences to solidify
the geology and biology lessons from seventh grade earth science, and I can help to provide the
context. The wind often blows here, but not any more than it probably blows in Chicago, though
the experience of watching wind from inside of a building is somewhat different. There are many
desert animals here on land and underwater; each is unique and impressive because it uses few
resources to sustain life in a harsh desert environment. These Uinta rocks are 1.2 Billion Years
Old. They’ve been here since before any life existed on earth. They could tell a tale or two. We
are so entranced in a world that we’ve created that we have lost the connection to nature. We try
to make up for the loss by owning the world. This is why it’s important to take people into true
nature — to have dark at night, cold when it’s cold, beauty. Whatever guests encounter their first
day on the river, they cannot be numb to it.
Carolynn Pool, a previous guest, explains that the reasons she goes on guide-let trips is,
“The scenery that you can’t experience but from the river’s perspective. The majesty of the

canyons, the starlit nights, the sound of the river as you drift off to sleep” (Personal
Communication, March 8, 2016). As guests are ready to drift off to sleep, the sky above the
canyon is just starting to come to life. The Colorado Plateau Dark Skies Cooperative’s (CPDSC)
Artificial Sky Glow Map (2015) closely mimics the coverage maps of Verizon and AT&T. That
is, areas with better wireless cell coverage see fewer stars through the artificial light glow
(Verizon 2015, AT&T 2015, CPDSC 2015). In the West though, and especially from the depths
of the canyons on the Colorado Plateau, light pollution doesn’t reach our skies and guests that
can keep their eyes open long enough on that first day witness over 4000 stars and the Milky
Way, bright and full, stretching above the canyon rim. This is known as a Bortle Class 2 sky
(CPDSC 2015). There are nine steps in the Bortle Scale, developed by astronomer John Bortle in
2001 (CPDSC 2015). Most of our guests come from cities that rank an eight or nine on the
scale. This means that the ground is brightly illuminated, the Milky Way is invisible, and only
the most vivid constellations are only partly identifiable.
The wonders guests see on day one were normal, daily sights for our predecessors just a
few generations ago. Day one is what people come on river trips for—it’s the satisfaction in
getting away from their desks and out from under street lights. Day one is only exposure, though.
In the following days, it’s a guides job to give the guests more than what they expect, according
to Kleinschnitz. At this point in the trip, guests don’t know the current threats to the
environment; they probably don’t understand water scarcity in the West, but they understand the
need to preserve simply because of remoteness and beauty. Kleinschnitz says, “Future
generations will look for clean places. In 500 years, what will be the legacy of the decisions we
make? That’s why the job of outdoor recreation is to expose the general population to all of these

places so they’ll have the preference to support them” (Personal Communication, February 11,
2016).
Day Two
My favorite part of day two is the part of the morning after I’ve woken up, but before
others have. I roll out of my sleeping back, step off of my boat, stretch, rub my eyes, find my
lighter, stretch, and light the stove. One side of the stove is heating water for cowboy coffee, the
other side is heating water for dishes. I am reminded that this is wilderness and, while the boats
can carry many creature comforts, we are still at the mercy of the elements. And time. I stretch
again and look up at the red canyon walls which cradle me like the morning hugs I used to get
from my mother. This is it: my moment of wilderness. It’s hard to give this moment up to guests
who can pay to experience the same wilderness I’ve worked my whole life to be a part of. As
jealous humans, we tend to want to preserve what we have by keeping it to ourselves. This is
especially true in permitted spaces, where access is sparse.
For the 2016 season alone, Dinosaur National Monument received 7,447 applications for
private river permits, but awarded only 300 launches, according to an NPS news release in
February (2016). In 2015 the Grand Canyon received 14,162 applications through the weighted
lottery from 6,532 different applicants (some people can put in 5 or more applications due to a
points system) (NPS, 2015, Slide 9). Of those, only 487 trips were drawn. Only 6,286 private
boaters saw the inside of the Grand Canyon in 2015, compared to 18,599 commercial guests
(Grand Canyon National Park (GCNP) 2016). That’s not to say that many more commercial
guests launch in a given day. User days—a days worth of recreation for each person—are
divided between private and commercial patrons 48% to 52% respectively, but most private trips
are longer, using more user days per person (GCNP 2016). Still, as both a private boater and a

commercial guide, it’s difficult to know that those with money can simply purchase a
commercial trip while seasoned outdoor recreators have to go through an almost impossible
lottery system. I am lucky to get to work in a place like this, knowing that the likelihood of being
here otherwise is slim. Williams says, “Back East you’re judged by what school you went to. In
the west, you’re judged by what rivers you’ve run what mountains you’ve climbed, what ski
areas you’ve skied” (Personal Communication, February 15, 2016). Sometimes, I’d like to keep
it to myself, but others came before me, and still others will come after and day two is about
recognizing who was here before and what of them we need to preserve for the future.
The Colorado Plateau is John Wesley Powell Country. He was the first European to
explore the Plateau from inside its canyons on two mostly-identical expeditions for from Green
River Wyoming to the confluence of the Colorado and the Virgin in Nevada. As we scout
“Disaster,” the first rapid to upset Powell’s crew, guests learn that the crew left the boat, the No
Name, shattered and stranded on rocks, leaving behind rations of instruments, clothing, and food
meant to be part of a 10-month expedition for the United States Geological Survey (USGS)
(Powell, 1889, p. ___). They recovered only a few barometers, thermometers, and the whiskey,
“The last is what the men were shouting about,” says Powell who would have rather kept alcohol
off of the trip (p. ____. After the confluence, on the Colorado river, scouts reveal a much larger
volume of water which careens over house-sized boulders. “Among these rocks, in chutes,
whirlpools, and great waves, with rushing breakers and foam, the water finds its way, still
tumbling down,” Powell writes in his 1869 account of the exploration of the Colorado (1889, p.
218). Powell knew that he had stumbled upon something special in the West, and volatile. In his
various books about the “arid regions” of North America, he warned that we could not develop

the West as we did the East. The rivers of the West, he said, could not sustain more than a tenth
of the population of the East.
Zebulon Miracle lives in my world: on the guiding side of tourism, though his expertise
lies in cultural tourism. With degrees in anthropology and history, he has spent 12 years
preserving artifacts and guiding tourists into the landscapes of history. He says,
We are living in this time where we have more access to information than we’ve ever
had. But nobody has context anymore. So it’s information overload… Do you really
understand why Powell was out there? Do you really understand the affects of Powell
going through and talking about the arid desert and his original schemes. I think you
actually have to be out on the land to do that. I think that we have too much information
and no context. (Personal Communication, February 19, 2016).
Miracle is right: when we stand looking down on the treacherous rapid that began the woes of
the first Powell expedition, my guests are not just reading Powell’s diary, they’re experiencing
the landscape. As Miracle says, “It changes your appreciation of it.”
“Our landscapes are where history actually happened,” Miracle says. Similar to
humanity’s earliest civilizations who were able to domesticate because of the life of the Tigris,
Euphrates, and Nile rivers, Ute, Navajo, Ancestral Puebloan, and Fremont tribes (and many
others) relied on the waters of the Colorado, the Green, and the Yampa to domesticate crops of
corn and gourds. Their history remains in some places in the rock art and granaries and cliff
dwellings dispersed along the Colorado Plateau. Recreated scenes in museums preserve ancient
pots and tools so that many generations can see them, but “Rock art connects us to different
cultures,” explains Miracle: “You need to actually be there: you can’t remove the rock art from
the people and you can’t remove the people from the land” (Personal Communication, February

19, 2016). Miracle explains that when he shows a group of people rock art in its original
location, he can turn them around and they can understand how the natives used the land, the
water, and the raw materials to provide everything they had.
More than 250 culturally significant sites were covered by the waters of Lake Powell
when Glen Canyon was dammed and flooded in the 1960s, despite Floyd Dominy (Bureau of
Reclamation Commissioner 1959-1969) insisting, “There was nothing there. Nothing there”
(DamNation, 2010). Don Fowler, an archeologist who salvaged many of the artifacts from Glen
Canyon as it was filling explains, “It was the biggest single salvage project up to that point”
(DamNation, 2010). We’ll talk about dams with our guests on day three, but the hope is that
seeing artifacts on day two in context helps guests to understand where they are. Kleinschnitz
explains that it’s “not only important because we are educating people on where they are, but
[giving them] a well-rounded education of where they are on the planet” (Personal
Communication, February 11, 2016). Guests may come for the rapids, but the best guide,
Kleinschnitz says, provides more than what’s expected to give a fuller understanding of what’s
important.
In the experiences we create for our clients, they learn more than what’s expected,
because, as Rømer explains, “We ‘are’ experience, and if we want to be educated we must throw
ourselves into these streams of transactions in which we breathe, we must find out what kind of
air we breathe, the specifics of each situation, instead of staying within dualistic epistemological
mode of learning” (p. 646, 2013). The experience is worth sharing our favorite hidden wilderness
if the guests take it home with them. The Glen Canyon Dam was not the last threat to cultural
history. Current threats along the Amazon’s headwaters on the Río Marañon or the artifacts
currently being covered by the flooding of the Three Gorges on the Yangtze River in China are

not always mentioned in the interpretive aspects of our trips on the Colorado Plateau, but
generally we try to help people to see the ways that water promote human development on the
most basic levels. The hope of recreational tourism at any level is that guests can return home
after a trip and apply what they’ve learned to current conservation efforts.
Day Three
On day three, things click for guests and guides alike. On day three, I no longer have to
remind people that they’ll need their cup if they want coffee, nor do I have to answer questions
about cell service, or the ever-pressing question: what time is it? This is partly because my guests
no longer believe that it is 11:05 all day long, but also because there is a general settling-in effect
that surrounds day three. Guests start to get the impression that the simple life in the outdoors is
comfortable. Day three mornings pass quietly, serenely, routinely. Guests sip morning cocktails
on the fronts of boats and pass through millions of years of geology without asking why.
In Whirlpool Canyon (named by Powell) on the Green river, we float past the site of one
of two proposed dams for Echo Park. It’s easy to pass by the site without recognizing that it
changed the course of conservation and help the fate of the first three days of the trip. In 1950 the
Bureau of Reclamation, under the Colorado River Storage Project (CSRP) looked to erect of
series of dams to tame the systems of the Colorado Plateau to offer irrigation and hydroelectric
power to the West (Young, 2008, p. 189). According to McGee Young of Marquette University,
this would become the fight that changed the Sierra Club, and organizational environmental
politics. At first, the Sierra Club was reluctant to take a stance on the Echo Park dams despite
various conservationists and conservation clubs begging the notion that “If Dinosaur could be
dammed, what limits would be left to enforce in other National Parks?” (Young, 2008, p. 190).

David Brower at the time was taking leadership in the Sierra Club and had little interest in saving
Echo Park, as he saw no aesthetic draw to the park and even protested enough to say,
“If I am still lukewarm on Dinosaur — and I must admit that I am a little — it is because
I have seen so many pictures of this dull, rolling, unmitigated surrounding country of
sagebrush — to verge on heresy. I have to argue with myself to persuade me that I
wouldn’t rather ride in the Western Pacific Vistadome through Glenwood Canyon than
struggle out through the dusty roads and sage to see a canyon which has been portrayed
to me as less spectacular.” (as cited in Young, 2008, p. 190)
Brower changed his mind after Bus Hatch—founder of Hatch expeditions and original
commercial guide in Dinosaur National Monument—took him on a trip down the untamed
Yampa River in 1953. In a true testament to why it is so important to expose people to these
places, Brower not only saw the beauty of Dinosaur National Monument, but returned to the
Sierra Club ready to take a stance on and fight for its protection. Brower and the Sierra Club
were able to save Dinosaur through exposure to the public, rather than their previous
conservation efforts which worked with club members inside congress (Young, 2008, p. 195-8).
They began publishing essays in the Saturday Evening Post and Readers’ Digest, then finally a
picture book, This is Dinosaur, which introduced readers to the beautiful canyons of Lodore and
Yampa — aesthetics that Brower called “cringe benefits” (Young, 2008, p. 197-8). The general
public could also experience these “cringe benefits” first hand as the Sierra Club sponsored
commercial river trips through the canyons, again exposing members to areas that desperately
needed their conservation support (Rig to Flip, 2014). For my guests, the history provides them
with the context that everything they’ve seen so far on the entire trip would be underwater
without the conservation efforts of people just like them.

In efforts to preserve Echo Park, Brower decided it would be best to only block the part
of the dam project based in Dinosaur National Monument, rather than the entire CSRP. The dam
that won out, Glen Canyon Dam, continues to damage the Colorado River systems. My guests
see the effects of the Glen Canyon Dam on day three of a very different kind of river trip through
Cataract Canyon. After thirty miles of some of the biggest whitewater in North America, the
Colorado slows abruptly as it enters Lake Powell, now seven miles later and about 100 feet
lower than it did in the 1980s and 90s before a few years of drought kept water from the
reservoir, exposing the walls of sediment that have been piling up since Glen Canyon started
filling in 1963. Here, I can fill a bucket with water, let the sediment settle, and provide a visual to
contextualize the inconceivable truth that every minute, the Colorado and San Juan rivers dump
8500 dump-truck loads of sediment into Lake Powell.
On day three, guests look up from the depths of the canyons and have a complete picture
of the West; they can combine the beauty of day one and the history of day two and watch it all
slowly drown in the hypothetical and realistic reservoirs of day three. This realization that
“Wilderness is a resource which can shrink, but not grow” (278) was a crushing blow that
Aldous Leopold recognized in A Sand County Almanac (1949). I don’t tend to allow politics on
my boat, but I have a responsibility to explain silt deposits that tower above us and provide the
dam history for the regions we raft. The National Environmental Education & Training
Foundation (NEETF) compiles decadal research from surveys and censuses on the
environmentally literate, who they define as “ someone who, both individually and together with
others, makes informed decisions concerning the environment; is willing to act on these
decisions to improve the well-being of other individuals, societies, and the global environment;
and participates in civic life” (2015, p. 11). The environment isn’t a political agenda, it’s my

back yard, my livelihood, and most importantly a fleeting natural wonder that can in no way be
replaced. It isn't enough that people know, though. Knowing makes it political — an agenda
item. People have to care. Dewey explained that we often think emotions are separate from
intellectual knowledge, but instead, “The intellect is a pure light; the emotions are a disturbing
heat” (1916, p. 321). Therefor, if we feel a connection to our environment, we will burn to
discover it.
Day Four
The difference between a one-day tourist and a four-day tourist is his questions. Edward
Abbey in Desert Solitaire (1968) outlined the “same three basic questions [park rangers answer]
five hundred times a day: (1) Where’s the john? (2) How long’s it take to see this place? (3)
Where’s the Coke machine?” (p. 55). I remember a guest I had in 2008 from Long Island. I had
convinced her on the morning of day two that there was a boat-through Starbucks at the Echo
Park Ranger station at the confluence of the Green and the Yampa. On day four as we rowed
away from the canyons on the meandering river through the slow, desolate Island Park, she was
laughing at her own naivety for considering such a lie. Plus, she really didn’t need Starbucks
after all. Abbey was not actually afraid of recreational tourism. He was afraid of what he called
“Industrial Tourism” (1968, p. 61), or the act of seeing National Parks from the comfort of a
vehicle. But Abbey also maintained that people who complained at first about getting out of their
vehicles and discovering more slowly the wonders of a national park, would not complain for
long about the lack of modern conveniences. He wrote “They will complain instead of crawling
back into a car; they may even object to returning to desk and office and that drywall box on
Mossy Brook Circle. The fires of revolt may be kindled—which means hope for us all” (1968, p.
67). In deed a recreational tourism that introduces the suburbanite to a lack of modern

conveniences does not encourage complaints from lack of said conveniences, but a general
anxiety about returning to a world of unnatural noise and drip coffee. We leave our final camp
with the realization that to be comfortable back home, we’ll have to put sand in our kitchens.
A shift occurs, even for me, on day four, as the reality of returning to the “real world”
sets in. It’s hard to write “real world” and realize that I am accepting that the natural world is less
real than the manufactured world we all live in. Day four is our last chance as guides to send
guests home with a memorable trip. I like to stop at a natural warm springs in Split Mountain
Canyon on day four of a Green River trip. It’s right on the river, but so many groups pass right
by it looking to get first dibs on the boat ramp. It’s a great spot to huddle the group together for
final pictures, a final instructional speech about boat ramp etiquette, and a reminder to keep out
cash for the convenient store. But mostly, it’s a final chance to come together as a group and
reflect on a four-day relationship, between a handful of people, that seemed ultimately natural.
This is the way people were meant to come together: next to a fire, under the stars, between
canyon walls, in the presence of their ancestors. The hope is that they take this natural
relationship home, nurture it, long to have it again, share it with their friends, and fight with
everything in their power to protect it.
Miracle says that there is “no greater thrill than when someone is on a trip and they go
‘I’ve always wondered about this and I’m going to go home and I’m going to look this up. Now I
understand’” (Personal Communication, February 19, 2016). Cultural tourism, nature tourism,
eco tourism, and recreational tourism are all ways to place a mirror in front our guests to look
back on themselves.

References
Abbey, E. (1968). Desert solitaire: A season in the wilderness. New York: Ballentine Books.
Colorado Plateau Dark Sky Cooperative. (2015). Dark skies and skyglow information bulletin.
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Hinchman, L. P. (2004). Is environmentalism a humanism? Environmental Values, 13(1), 3-3.
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Leopold, A. (1949) A sand county almanac: With essays on conservation from round river. New
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United States: An agenda for leadership in the 21st century. Washington, DC: National
Environmental Education Foundation.
Powell, J.W. (1875). The exploration of the Colorado River and its canyons. New York: Penguin
Books.
Rig to Flip (Producer/Director), (2014,) Warm Springs: The Film, rigtoflip.org.
Rømer, T. A. (2013). Nature, education and things. Studies in Philosophy and Education, 32(6),
641-652.
Stoecker, M. (Producer) & Knights, B. and Rummel, T. (Directors). (2014). DamNation [Motion
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Young, M. (2008). From conservation to environment: The Sierra Club and the organizational
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