The following is the speech given by Amy Gulick upon accepting the 2010 Voice of the Wild Award from Alaska Wilderness League. November 10, 2010, Seattle, WA. © 2010 Amy Gulick, All Rights Reserved

I am honored and humbled to be standing before you tonight. And quite frankly, I’m a bit surprised. I’m surprised because what I do is really fun. And the last I checked, “having fun” isn’t really an award-winning criteria. Who wouldn’t want to be on a stream loaded with salmon and watch bears fish in the Tongass rain forest? Who wouldn’t want to be among thousands of caribou as they migrate to their calving grounds on the coastal plain of the Arctic Refuge? Who wouldn’t want to hear the songs of millions of migratory birds in the Western Arctic? Who wouldn’t want to be anywhere in our wildest Alaska lands with no sign of development as far as the eye can see and the ear can hear? I’ll say it again — experiencing these wild moments is really fun. But it’s much more than that. Our wild lands in Alaska are where I’m at my best, where I make sense of a crazy world, and where I go to understand what it means to be human and part of the home we call Earth. These sacred grounds ground me. And I know that I’m not alone in my thoughts as wild Alaska touches each of you in your
own way.

So if I’m at my best in the wild, why do I spend large chunks of my life in the urban jungle, chained to a computer, chasing funding, a slave to deadlines, an email addict, a political junkie, away from the places where I’d rather be, and admittedly having a lot less fun? I think you all know the answer to this. It is not enough to enjoy Alaska for our own self-absorbed needs. It is not enough to think it will always be there. And it is not enough to assume that someone else will make sure it stays wild. If I don’t do it, who will? If you don’t do it, who will?

If we lose the wild, we lose the wild within ourselves. We lose that sacred bond we forged with nature long long ago. We lose our very souls. And for me, the life of an industrialized drone is worse than death. To live is to pay attention, and in the wild this is not only possible, it’s palpable. When the glorious song of a Swainson’s thrush makes your own heart sing – that’s living. When you can taste trees in salmon and salmon in trees – that’s living. When a set of fresh grizzly bear tracks stops you in your tracks – that’s living.

Many people who are no longer living persisted so hard to ensure that the generations that followed them know what it means to be alive. People like Olaus and Mardy Murie, Bob Marshall, Ed and Peggy Wayburn, Celia Hunter, and countless unsung heroes – we have them to thank for leaving us one hell of a glorious legacy.

Today it’s our turn. Many of you in this room have been at this much much longer than I have. You are my mentors, partners, and friends. Some of you are new to this saving-the-world business. You give me great hope that this work will continue. We each do what we can – some of you sit in difficult meetings with nasty adversaries; some of you do crucial scientific research, some of you agonize over how best to give limited funds to a surplus of worthy causes; some of you, including myself, create books and exhibits so others can see the wild, and some of you write letters, make phone calls, and make coffee. All of you have taught me that we each have our strengths, we need every one of us doing what we do, and together, we’re an incredible force of nature.

But do we have what it takes to succeed in today’s impatient deliver-results-now-instant-gratification kind of world? The conservation movement is not a for-profit corporation. We can’t measure our results on a quarterly basis. We can’t grow every year and deliver concrete returns. And yet sometimes I fear that these are the expectations. What do you think the Muries, and Wayburns, and Bob Marshalls and Celia Hunters would say to this? The very people who were instrumental in creating the Arctic Refuge, Admiralty Island National Monument and Wilderness in the Tongass National Forest, Denali National Park, and many other prized protected areas in Alaska? What would they say? I’d like to think that they would say that advocating for our wild lands is not a full time job. It’s a way of life. And it can take a lifetime to succeed. And the rewards are far richer than any Fortune 500 company could ever produce. And we don’t have shareholders to answer to. We have our children and grandchildren to answer to.

So when you feel like times are dark, when burnout is at your door, when cynicism overtakes hope, picture yourself in your favorite wild place or one that you’d like to visit some day, or one that you just want to know will always be there – the vast tundra of the Arctic, a cathedral of ancient trees in the Tongass, watching wolves stalk caribou, listening to the chattering of ground squirrels and the chortling of ravens, cheering on salmon as they dodge the beaks and jaws of bears and eagles. If you need a reminder of what these places look like and how they make you feel, I can suggest a book or two.

A few weeks ago, I was in Washington DC giving my Salmon in the Trees Tongass presentation at the National Zoo. I spent some time in our nation’s capital, walking among the awe-inspiring Lincoln Memorial, Washington Monument, Library of Congress, and the United States Capitol building. These impressive structures serve as strong symbols of the values our country was founded on, and I found myself deeply touched. But it was a generic white boxy building that made me stop in my tracks and swell with pride – the offices of the Department of the Interior, the agency tasked with overseeing much of our public lands.

As an American citizen, there are many things I am grateful for – the first amendment to the U.S. constitution, civil rights, women’s rights, animal rights, and much more. But the one thing I am most proud of, the thing that sets us apart as a country from so many others is the idea of public land. The notion that there are places that we decided were too beautiful and too important to be plundered, and that all people, regardless of their standing in life, could enjoy. It is not human nature to forego our own self-interests for the benefit of not only other people, but other species as well. And we’ve done just that, as a nation, time after time, since 1872 when we created Yellowstone National Park, the first of its kind in the entire world. We are a leader when it comes to public lands, but the creation of darn near every acre, whether it’s in a national park, forest, wildlife refuge, monument, or marine sanctuary, has never been easy. It took great leadership, courage, passion, and persistence. I can’t even imagine our country, or my own life, today without places like Yellowstone, Mt. Rainier, Denali, the Tongass, or the Arctic Refuge.

So do we have what it takes? Yes, we do. Do we have incredible opportunities today to leave a wild legacy in the Tongass and Arctic? Yes, we do. Do we have our work cut out for us? Yes, we do. But passion and persistence are our greatest assets, more valuable than any corporate balance sheet. And just as I find strength and rejuvenation in Alaska’s wild places, I find it right here with all of you. You keep me going. You give me hope. For without you, there would be no passion, there would be no wild places, there would be no hope. And so we gather here tonight to find strength and solace in each other, to raise our voices for the wild, and to give voice to the salmon, bears, forests, flowers, ravens, caribou, wolves, wolverines, muskox, whales, sea lions, and loons of Alaska. Long may they thrive.

Thank you.

Author information

Amy Gulick is an award-winning photojournalist and a Fellow with the International League of Conservation Photographers. Her images and stories have been featured in Audubon, National Wildlife, Nature’s Best Photography, and Sierra. To see more of her work, visit www.amygulick.com. To learn more about Amy’s work in the Tongass, visit www.salmoninthetrees.org.