The Land Ethic

by Aldo Leopold

1949

[ This essay is excerpted from Aldo Leopold's book A Sand County Almanac. ]

When god-like Odysseus returned from the wars in Troy, he hanged all on one rope a
dozen slave-girls of his household whom he suspected of misbehavior during his
absence.

This hanging involved no question of propriety. The girls were property. The disposal of
property was then, as now, a matter of expediency, not of right and wrong.

Concepts of right and wrong were not lacking from Odysseus' Greece: witness the
fidelity of his wife through the long years before at last his black-prowed galleys clove
the wine-dark seas for home. The ethical structure of that day covered wives, but had
not yet been extended to human chattels. During the three thousand years which have
since elapsed, ethical criteria have been extended to many fields of conduct, with
corresponding shrinkages in those judged by expediency only.

THE ETHICAL SEQUENCE

This extension of ethics, so far studied only by philosophers, is actually a process in

ecological evolution. Its sequences may be described in ecological as well as well as in
philosophical terms. An ethic, ecologically, is a limitation on freedom of action in the
struggle for existence. An ethic, philosophically, is a differentiation of social from anti-
social conduct. These are two definitions of one thing. The thing has its origin in the
tendency of interdependent individuals or groups to evolve modes of co-operation. The
ecologist calls these symbioses. Politics and economics are advanced symbioses in
which the original free-for-all competition has been replaced, in part, by co-operative
mechanisms with an ethical content.

The complexity of co-operative mechanisms has increased with population density, and
with the efficiency of tools. It was simpler, for example, to define the anti-social uses of
sticks and stones in the days of the mastodons than of bullets and billboards in the age
of motors.

The first ethics dealt with the relation between individuals; the Mosaic Decalogue is an
example. Later accretions dealt with the relation between the individual and society. The
Golden Rule tries to integrate the individual to society; democracy to integrate social
organization to the individual.
There is as yet no ethic dealing with man's relation to land and to the animals and plants
which grow upon it. Land, like Odysseus' slave-girls, is still property. The land-relation is
still strictly economic, entailing privileges but not obligations.

The extension of ethics to this third element in human environment is, if I read the
evidence correctly, an evolutionary possibility and an ecological necessity. It is the third
step in a sequence. The first two have already been taken. Individual thinkers since the
days of Ezekiel and Isaiah have asserted that the despoliation of land is not only
inexpedient but wrong. Society, however, has not yet affirmed their belief. I regard the
present conservation movement as the embryo of such an affirmation.

An ethic may be regarded as a mode of guidance for meeting ecological situations so

new or intricate, or involving such deferred reactions, that the path of social expediency
is not discernible to the average individual. Animal instincts are modes of guidance for
the individual in meeting such situations. Ethics are possibly a kind of community
instinct in-the-making.

THE COMMUNITY CONCEPT

All ethics so far evolved rest upon a single premise that the individual is a member of a
community of interdependent parts. His instincts prompt him to compete for his place in
that community, but his ethics prompt him also to co-operate (perhaps in order that
there may be a place to compete for).

The land ethic simply enlarges the boundaries of the community to include soils, waters,
plants, and animals, or collectively: the land.

This sounds simple: do we not already sing our love for and obligation to the land of the
free and the home of the brave? Yes, but just what and whom do we love? Certainly not
the soil, which we are sending helter-skelter down river. Certainly not the waters, which
we assume have no function except to turn turbines, float barges, and carry off sewage.
Certainly not the plants, of which we exterminate whole communities without batting an
eye. Certainly not the animals, of which we have already extirpated many of the largest
and most beautiful species. A land ethic of course cannot prevent the alteration,
management, and use of these 'resources,' but it does affirm their right to continued
existence, and, at least in spots, their continued existence in a natural state

In short, a land ethic changes the role of Homo sapiens from conqueror of the land-
community to plain member and citizen of it. It implies respect for his fellow-members,
and also respect for the community as such.

In human history, we have learned (I hope) that the conqueror role is eventually self-
defeating. Why? Because it is implicit in such a role that the conqueror knows, ex
cathedra, just what makes the community clock tick, and just what and who is valuable,
and what and who is worthless, in community life. It always turns out that he knows
neither, and this is why his conquests eventually defeat themselves.
In the biotic community, a parallel situation exists. Abraham knew exactly what the land
was for: it was to drip milk and honey into Abraham's mouth. At the present moment, the
assurance with which we regard this assumption is inverse to the degree of our
education.

The ordinary citizen today assumes that science knows what makes the community
clock tick; the scientist is equally sure that he does not. He knows that the biotic
mechanism is so complex that its workings may never be fully understood.

That man is, in fact, only a member of a biotic team is shown by an ecological
interpretation of history. Many historical events, hitherto explained solely in terms of
human enterprise, were actually biotic, interactions between people and land. The
characteristics of the land determined the facts quite as potently as the characteristics
of the men who lived on it.

Consider, for example, the settlement of the Mississippi valley. In the years following the
Revolution, three groups were contending for its control: the native Indian, the French
and English traders, and the American settlers. Historians wonder what would have
happened if the English at Detroit had thrown a little more weight into the Indian side of
those tipsy scales which decided the outcome of the colonial migration into the cane-
lands of Kentucky. It is time now to ponder the fact that the cane-lands, when subjected
to the particular mixture of forces represented by the cow, plow, fire, and axe of the
pioneer, became bluegrass. What if the plant succession inherent in this dark and
bloody ground had, under the impact of these forces, given us some worthless sedge,
shrub, or weed? Would Boone and Kenton have held out? Would there have been any
overflow into Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri? Any Louisiana Purchase? Any
transcontinental union of new states? Any Civil War?

Kentucky was one sentence in the drama of history. We are commonly told what the
human actors in this drama tried to do, but we are seldom told that their success, or the
lack of it, hung in large degree on the reaction of particular soils to the impact of the
particular forces exerted by their occupancy. In the case of Kentucky, we do not even
know where the bluegrass came from -- whether it is a native species, or a stowaway
from Europe.

Contrast the cane-lands with what hindsight tells us about the Southwest, where the
pioneers were equally brave, resourceful, and persevering. The impact of occupancy
here brought no bluegrass, or other plant fitted to withstand the bumps and buffetings of
hard use. This region, when grazed by livestock, reverted through a series of more and
more worthless grasses, shrubs, and weeds to a condition of unstable equilibrium. Each
recession of plant types bred erosion; each increment to erosion bred a further
recession of plants. The result today is a progressive and mutual deterioration, not only
of plants and soils, but of the animal community subsisting thereon. The early settlers
did not expect this: on the ciénegas of New Mexico some even cut ditches to hasten it.
So subtle has been its progress that few residents of the region are aware of it. It is
quite invisible to the tourist who finds this wrecked landscape colorful and charming (as
indeed it is, but it bears scant resemblance to what it was in 1848).

This same landscape was 'developed' once before, but with quite different results. The
Pueblo Indians settled the Southwest in pre-Columbian times, but they happened not to
be equipped with range livestock. Their civilization expired, but not because their land
expired.

In India, regions devoid of any sod-forming grass have been settled, apparently without
wrecking the land, by the simple expedient of carrying the grass to the cow, rather than
vice versa. (Was this the result of some deep wisdom, or was it just good luck? I do not
know.)

In short, the plant succession steered the course of history; the pioneer simply
demonstrated, for good or ill, what successions inhered in the land. Is history taught in
this spirit? It will be, once the concept of land as a community really penetrates our
intellectual life.

THE ECOLOGICAL CONSCIENCE

Conservation is a state of harmony between man and land. Despite nearly a century of
propaganda, conservation still proceeds at a snail's pace; progress still consists largely
of letterhead pieties and convention oratory. On the back forty we still slip two steps
backward for each forward stride.

The usual answer to this dilemma is 'more conservation education.' No one will debate
this, but is it certain that only the volume of education needs stepping up? Is something
lacking in the content as well?

It is difficult to give a fair summary of its content in brief form, but, as I understand it, the
content is substantially this: obey the law, vote right, join some organizations, and
practice what conservation is profitable on your own land; the government will do the
rest.

Is not this formula too easy to accomplish anything worth-while? It defines no right or
wrong, assigns no obligation, calls for no sacrifice, implies no change in the current
philosophy of values. In respect of land use, it urges only enlightened self-interest. Just
how far will such education take us? An example will perhaps yield a partial answer.

By 1930 it had become clear to all except the ecologically blind that southwestern
Wisconsin's topsoil was slipping seaward. In 1933 the farmers were told that if they
would adopt certain remedial practices for five years, the public would donate CCC
labor to install them, plus the necessary machinery and materials. The offer was widely
accepted, but the practices were widely forgotten when the five-year contract period
was up. The farmers continued only those practices that yielded an immediate and
visible economic gain for themselves.
This led to the idea that maybe farmers would learn more quickly if they themselves
wrote the rules. Accordingly the Wisconsin Legislature in 1937 passed the Soil
Conservation District Law. This said to farmers, in effect: We, the public, will furnish you
free technical service and loan you specialized machines, if you will write your own rules
for land-use. Each county may write its own rules, and these will have the force of law.
Nearly all the counties promptly organized to accept the proffered help, but after a
decade of operation, no county has yet written a single rule. There has been visible
progress in such practices as strip-cropping, pasture renovation, and soil liming, but
none in fencing woodlots against grazing, and none in excluding plow and cow from
steep slopes. The farmers, in short, have selected those remedial practices which were
profitable anyhow, and ignored those which were profitable to the community, but not
clearly profitable to themselves.

When one asks why no rules have been written, one is told that the community is not
yet ready to support them; education must precede rules. But the education actually in
progress makes no mention of obligations to land over and above those dictated by self-
interest. The net result is that we have more education but less soil, fewer healthy
woods, and as many floods as in 1937.

The puzzling aspect of such situations is that the existence of obligations over and
above self-interest is taken for granted in such rural community enterprises as the
betterment of roads, schools, churches, and baseball teams. Their existence is not
taken for granted, nor as yet seriously discussed, in bettering the behavior of the water
that falls on the land, or in the preserving of the beauty or diversity of the farm
landscape. Land use ethics are still governed wholly by economic self-interest, just as
social ethics were a century ago.

To sum up: we asked the farmer to do what he conveniently could to save his soil, and
he has done just that, and only that. The farmer who clears the woods off a 75 per cent
slope, turns his cows into the clearing, and dumps its rainfall, rocks, and soil into the
community creek, is still (if otherwise decent) a respected member of society. If he puts
lime on his fields and plants his crops on contour, he is still entitled to all the privileges
and emoluments of his Soil Conservation District. The District is a beautiful piece of
social machinery, but it is coughing along on two cylinders because we have been too
timid, and too anxious for quick success, to tell the farmer the true magnitude of his
obligations. Obligations have no meaning without conscience, and the problem we face
is the extension of the social conscience from people to land.

No important change in ethics was ever accomplished without an internal change in our
intellectual emphasis, loyalties, affections, and convictions. The proof that conservation
has not yet touched these foundations of conduct lies in the fact that philosophy and
religion have not yet heard of it. In our attempt to make conservation easy, we have
made it trivial.

SUBSTITUTES FOR A LAND ETHIC

When the logic of history hungers for bread and we hand out a stone, we are at pains to
explain how much the stone resembles bread. I now describe some of the stones which
serve in lieu of a land ethic.

One basic weakness in a conservation system based wholly on economic motives is

that most members of the land community have no economic value. Wildflowers and
songbirds are examples. Of the 22,000 higher plants and animals native to Wisconsin, it
is doubtful whether more than 5 per cent can be sold, fed, eaten, or otherwise put to
economic use. Yet these creatures are members of the biotic community, and if (as I
believe) its stability depends on its integrity, they are entitled to continuance.

When one of these non-economic categories is threatened, and if we happen to love it,
we invent subterfuges to give it economic importance. At the beginning of the century
songbirds were supposed to be disappearing. Ornithologists jumped to the rescue with
some distinctly shaky evidence to the effect that insects would eat us up if birds failed to
control them. The evidence had to be economic in order to be valid.

It is painful to read these circumlocutions today. We have no land ethic yet, but we have
at least drawn nearer the point of admitting that birds should continue as a matter of
biotic right, regardless of the presence or absence of economic advantage to us.

A parallel situation exists in respect of predatory mammals, raptoral birds, and fish-
eating birds. Time was when biologists somewhat overworked the evidence that these
creatures preserve the health of game by killing weaklings, or that they control rodents
for the farmer, or that they prey only on 'worthless' species. Here again, the evidence
had to be economic in order to be valid. It is only in recent years that we hear the more
honest argument that predators are members of the community, and that no special
interest has the right to exterminate them for the sake of a benefit, real or fancied, to
itself. Unfortunately this enlightened view is still in the talk stage. In the field the
extermination of predators goes merrily on: witness the impending erasure of the timber
wolf by fiat of Congress, the Conservation Bureaus, and many state legislatures.

Some species of trees have been 'read out of the party' by economics-minded foresters
because they grow too slowly, or have too low a sale value to pay as timber crops:
white cedar, tamarack, cypress, beech, and hemlock are examples. In Europe, where
forestry is ecologically more advanced, the non-commercial tree species are recognized
as members of the native forest community, to be preserved as such, within reason.
Moreover some (like beech) have been found to have a valuable function in building up
soil fertility. The interdependence of the forest and its constituent tree species, ground
flora, and fauna is taken for granted.

Lack of economic value is sometimes a character not only of species or groups, but of
entire biotic communities: marshes, bogs, dunes, and 'deserts' are examples. Our
formula in such cases is to relegate their conservation to government as refuges,
monuments, or parks. The difficulty is that these communities are usually interspersed
with more valuable private lands; the government cannot possibly own or control such
scattered parcels. The net effect is that we have relegated some of them to ultimate
extinction over large areas. If the private owner were ecologically minded, he would be
proud to be the custodian of a reasonable proportion of such areas, which add diversity
and beauty to his farm and to his community.

In some instances, the assumed lack of profit in these 'waste' areas has proved to be
wrong, but only after most of them had been done away with. The present scramble to
reflood muskrat marshes is a case in point.

There is a clear tendency in American conservation to relegate to government all

necessary jobs that private landowners fail to perform. Government ownership,
operation, subsidy, or regulation is now widely prevalent in forestry, range management,
soil and watershed management, park and wilderness conservation, fisheries
management, and migratory bird management, with more to come. Most of this growth
in governmental conservation is proper and logical, some of it is inevitable. That I imply
no disapproval of it is implicit in the fact that I have spent most of my life working for it.
Nevertheless the question arises: What is the ultimate magnitude of the enterprise? Will
the tax base carry its eventual ramifications? At what point will governmental
conservation, like the mastodon, become handicapped by its own dimensions? The
answer, if there is any, seems to be in a land ethic, or some other force which assigns
more obligation to the private landowner.

Industrial landowners and users, especially lumbermen and stockmen, are inclined to
wail long and loudly about the extension of government ownership and regulation to
land, but (with notable exceptions) they show little disposition to develop the only visible
alternative: the voluntary practice of conservation on their own lands.

When the private landowner is asked to perform some unprofitable act for the good of
the community, he today assents only with outstretched palm. If the act costs him cash
this is fair and proper, but when it costs only forethought, open-mindedness, or time, the
issue is at least debatable. The overwhelming growth of land-use subsidies in recent
years must be ascribed, in large part, to the government's own agencies for
conservation education: the land bureaus, the agricultural colleges, and the extension
services. As far as I can detect, no ethical obligation toward land is taught in these
institutions.

To sum up: a system of conservation based solely on economic self-interest is

hopelessly lopsided. It tends to ignore, and thus eventually to eliminate, many elements
in the land community that lack commercial value, but that are (as far as we know)
essential to its healthy functioning. It assumes, falsely, I think, that the economic parts
of the biotic clock will function without the uneconomic parts. It tends to relegate to
government many functions eventually too large, too complex, or too widely dispersed
to be performed by government.

An ethical obligation on the part of the private owner is the only visible remedy for these
situations.
 THE LAND PYRAMID

An ethic to supplement and guide the economic relation to land presupposes the
existence of some mental image of land as a biotic mechanism. We can be ethical only
in relation to something we can see, feel, understand, love, or otherwise have faith in.

The image commonly employed in conservation education is 'the balance of nature.' For
reasons too lengthy to detail here, this figure of speech fails to describe accurately what
little we know about the land mechanism. A much truer image is the one employed in
ecology: the biotic pyramid. I shall first sketch the pyramid as a symbol of land, and later
develop some of its implications in terms of land-use.

Plants absorb energy from the sun. This energy flows through a circuit called the biota,
which may be represented by a pyramid consisting of layers. The bottom layer is the
soil. A plant layer rests on the soil, an insect layer on the plants, a bird and rodent layer
on the insects, and so on up through various animal groups to the apex layer, which
consists of the large carnivores.

The species of a layer are alike not in where they came from, or in what they look like,
but rather in what they eat. Each successive layer depends on those below it for food
and often for other services, and each in turn furnishes food and services to those
above. Proceeding upward, each successive layer decreases in numerical abundance.
Thus, for every carnivore there are hundreds of his prey, thousands of their prey,
millions of insects, uncountable plants. The pyramidal form of the system reflects this
numerical progression from apex to base. Man shares an intermediate layer with the
bears, raccoons, and squirrels which eat both meat and vegetables.

The lines of dependency for food and other services are called food chains. Thus soil-
oak-deer- Indian is a chain that has now been largely converted to 'soil-corn-cow-
farmer.' Each species, including ourselves, is a link in many chains. The deer eats a
hundred plants other than oak, and the cow a hundred plants other than corn. Both,
then, are links in a hundred chains. The pyramid is a tangle of chains so complex as to
seem disorderly, yet the stability of the system proves it to be a highly organized
structure. Its functioning depends on the co-operation and competition of its diverse
parts.

In the beginning, the pyramid of life was low and squat; the food chains short and
simple. Evolution has added layer after layer, link after link. Man is one of thousands of
accretions to the height and complexity of the pyramid. Science has given us many
doubts, but it has given us at least one certainty: the trend of evolution is to elaborate
and diversify the biota.

Land, then, is not merely soil; it is a fountain of energy flowing through a circuit of soils,
plants, and animals. Food chains are the living channels which conduct energy upward;
death and decay return it to the soil. The circuit is not closed; some energy is dissipated
in decay, some is added by absorption from the air, some is stored in soils, peats, and
long-lived forests; but it is a sustained circuit, like a slowly augmented revolving fund of
life. There is always a net loss by downhill wash, but this is normally small and offset by
the decay of rocks. It is deposited in the ocean and, in the course of geological time,
raised to form new lands and new pyramids.

The velocity and character of the upward flow of energy depend on the complex
structure of the plant and animal community, much as the upward flow of sap in a tree
depends on its complex cellular organization. Without this complexity, normal circulation
would presumably not occur. Structure means the characteristic numbers, as well as the
characteristic kinds and functions, of the component species. This interdependence
between the complex structure of the land and its smooth functioning as an energy unit
is one of its basic attributes.

When a change occurs in one part of the circuit, many other parts must adjust
themselves to it. Change does not necessarily obstruct or divert the flow of energy;
evolution is a long series of self-induced changes, the net result of which has been to
elaborate the flow mechanism and to lengthen the circuit. Evolutionary changes,
however, are usually slow and local. Man' s invention of tools has enabled him to make
changes of unprecedented violence, rapidity, and scope.

One change is in the composition of floras and faunas. The larger predators are lopped
off the apex of the pyramid; food chains, for the first time in history, become shorter
rather than longer. Domesticated species from other lands are substituted for wild ones,
and wild ones are moved to new habitats. In this world-wide pooling of faunas and
floras, some species get out of bounds as pests and diseases, others are extinguished.
Such effects are seldom intended or foreseen; they represent unpredicted and often
untraceable readjustments in the structure. Agricultural science is largely a race
between the emergence of new pests and the emergence of new techniques for their
control.

Another change touches the flow of energy through plants and animals and its return to
the soil. Fertility is the ability of soil to receive, store, and release energy. Agriculture, by
overdrafts on the soil, or by too radical a substitution of domestic for native species in
the superstructure, may derange the channels of flow or deplete storage. Soils depleted
of their storage, or of the organic matter which anchors it, wash away faster than they
form. This is erosion.

Waters, like soil, are part of the energy circuit. Industry, by polluting waters or
obstructing them with dams, may exclude the plants and animals necessary to keep
energy in circulation.

Transportation brings about another basic change: the plants or animals grown in one
region are now consumed and returned to the soil in another. Transportation taps the
energy stored in rocks, and in the air, and uses it elsewhere; thus we fertilize the garden
with nitrogen gleaned by the guano birds from the fishes of seas on the other side of the
Equator. Thus the formerly localized and self-contained circuits are pooled on a world-
wide scale.

The process of altering the pyramid for human occupation releases stored energy, and
this often gives rise, during the pioneering period, to a deceptive exuberance of plant
and animal life, both wild and tame. These releases of biotic capital tend to becloud or
postpone the penalties of violence.

* * * * *

This thumbnail sketch of land as an energy circuit conveys three basic ideas:

(1) That land is not merely soil.

(2) That the native plants and animals kept the energy circuit open; others may or may
not.

(3) That man-made changes are of a different order than evolutionary changes, and
have effects more comprehensive than is intended or foreseen.

These ideas, collectively, raise two basic issues: Can the land adjust itself to the new
order? Can the desired alterations be accomplished with less violence?

Biotas seem to differ in their capacity to sustain violent conversion. Western Europe, for
example, carries a far different pyramid than Caesar found there. Some large animals
are lost; swampy forests have become meadows or plowland; many new plants and
animals are introduced, some of which escape as pests; the remaining natives are
greatly changed in distribution and abundance. Yet the soil is still there and, with the
help of imported nutrients, still fertile; the waters flow normally; the new structure seems
to function and to persist. There is no visible stoppage or derangement of the circuit.

Western Europe, then, has a resistant biota. Its inner processes are tough, elastic,
resistant to strain. No matter how violent the alterations, the pyramid, so far, has
developed some new modus vivendi which preserves its habitability for man, and for
most of the other natives.

Japan seems to present another instance of radical conversion without disorganization.

Most other civilized regions, and some as yet barely touched by civilization, display
various stages of disorganization, varying from initial symptoms to advanced wastage.
In Asia Minor and North Africa diagnosis is confused by climatic changes, which may
have been either the cause or the effect of advanced wastage. In the United States the
degree of disorganization varies locally; it is worst in the Southwest, the Ozarks, and
parts of the South, and least in New England and the Northwest. Better land-uses may
still arrest it in the less advanced regions. In parts of Mexico, South America, South
Africa, and Australia a violent and accelerating wastage is in progress, but I cannot
assess the prospects.
This almost world-wide display of disorganization in the land seems to be similar to
disease in an animal, except that it never culminates in complete disorganization or
death. The land recovers, but at some reduced level of complexity, and with a reduced
carrying capacity for people, plants, and animals. Many biotas currently regarded as
'lands of opportunity' are in fact already subsisting on exploitative agriculture, i.e., they
have already exceeded their sustained carrying capacity. Most of South America is
overpopulated in this sense.

In and regions we attempt to offset the process of wastage by reclamation, but it is only
too evident that the prospective longevity of reclamation projects is often short. In our
own West, the best of them may not last a century.

The combined evidence of history and ecology seems to support one general
deduction: the less violent the man-made changes, the greater the probability of
successful readjustment in the pyramid. Violence, in turn, varies with human population
density; a dense population requires a more violent conversion. In this respect, North
America has a better chance for permanence than Europe, if she can contrive to limit
her density.

This deduction runs counter to our current philosophy, which assumes that because a
small increase in density enriched human life, that an indefinite increase will enrich it
indefinitely. Ecology knows of no density relationship that holds for indefinitely wide
limits. All gains from density are subject to a law of diminishing returns.

Whatever may be the equation for men and land, it is improbable that we as yet know
all its terms. Recent discoveries in mineral and vitamin nutrition reveal unsuspected
dependencies in the up-circuit: incredibly minute quantities of certain substances
determine the value of soils to plants, of plants to animals. What of the down-circuit?
What of the vanishing species, the preservation of which we now regard as an esthetic
luxury? They helped build the soil; in what unsuspected ways may they be essential to
its maintenance? Professor Weaver proposes that we use prairie flowers to reflocculate
the wasting soils of the dust bowl; who knows for what purpose cranes and condors,
otters and grizzlies may some day be used?

LAND HEALTH AND THE A-B CLEAVAGE

A land ethic, then, reflects the existence of an ecological conscience, and this in turn
reflects a conviction of individual responsibility for the health of the land. Health is the
capacity of the land for self-renewal. Conservation is our effort to understand and
preserve this capacity.

Conservationists are notorious for their dissensions. Superficially these seem to add up
to mere confusion, but a more careful scrutiny reveals a single plane of cleavage
common to many specialized fields. In each field one group (A) regards the land as soil,
and its function as commodity-production; another group (B) regards the land as a biota,
and its function as something broader. How much broader is admittedly in a state of
doubt and confusion.

In my own field, forestry, group A is quite content to grow trees like cabbages, with
cellulose as the basic forest commodity. It feels no inhibition against violence; its
ideology is agronomic. Group B. on the other hand, sees forestry as fundamentally
different from agronomy because it employs natural species, and manages a natural
environment rather than creating an artificial one. Group B prefers natural reproduction
on principle. It worries on biotic as well as economic grounds about the loss of species
like chestnut, and the threatened loss of the white pines. It worries about whole series of
secondary forest functions: wildlife, recreation, watersheds, wilderness areas. To my
mind, Group B feels the stirrings of an ecological conscience.

In the wildlife field, a parallel cleavage exists. For Group A the basic commodities are
sport and meat; the yardstick of production are ciphers of take in pheasants and trout.
Artificial propagation is acceptable as a permanent as well as a temporary recourse -- if
its unit costs permit. Group B on the other hand, worries about a whole series of biotic
side-issues. What is the cost in predators of producing a game crop? Should we have
further recourse to exotics? How can management restore the shrinking species, like
prairie grouse, already hopeless as shootable game? How can management restore the
threatened rarities, like trumpeter swan and whooping crane? Can management
principles be extended to wildflowers? Here again it is clear to me that we have the
same A-B cleavage as in forestry.

In the larger field of agriculture I am less competent to speak, but there seem to be
somewhat parallel cleavages. Scientific agriculture was actively developing before
ecology was born, hence a slower penetration of ecological concepts might be
expected. Moreover the farmer, by the very nature of his techniques, must modify the
biota more radically than the forester or the wildlife manager. Nevertheless, there are
many discontents in agriculture which seem to add up to a new vision of 'biotic farming.'

Perhaps the most important of these is the new evidence that poundage or tonnage is
no measure of the food-value of farm crops; the products of fertile soil may be
qualitatively as well as quantitatively superior. We can bolster poundage from depleted
soils by pouring on imported fertility, but we are not necessarily bolstering food-value.
The possible ultimate ramifications of this idea are so immense that I must leave their
exposition to abler pens.

The discontent that labels itself 'organic farming,' while bearing some of the earmarks of
a cult, is nevertheless biotic in its direction, particularly in its insistence on the
importance of soil flora and fauna.

The ecological fundamentals of agriculture are just as poorly known to the public as in
other fields of land-use. For example, few educated people realize that the marvelous
advances in technique made during recent decades are improvements in the pump,
rather than the well. Acre for acre, they have barely sufficed to offset the sinking level of
fertility.

In all of these cleavages, we see repeated the same basic paradoxes: man the
conqueror versus man the biotic citizen; science the sharpener of his sword versus
science the search-light on his universe; land the slave and servant versus land the
collective organism. Robinson's injunction to Tristram may well be applied, at this
juncture, to Homo sapiens as species in geological time:

Whether you will or not

You are a King, Tristram, for you are one
Of the time-tested few that leave the world,
When they are gone, not the same place it was.
Mark what you leave.

THE OUTLOOK

It is inconceivable to me that an ethical relation to land can exist without love, respect,
and admiration for land, and a high regard for its value. By value, of course, I mean
something far broader than mere economic value; I mean value in the philosophical
sense.

Perhaps the most serious obstacle impeding the evolution of a land ethic is the fact that
our educational and economic system is headed away from, rather than toward, an
intense consciousness of land. Your true modern is separated from the land by many
middlemen, and by innumerable physical gadgets. He has no vital relation to it; to him it
is the space between cities on which crops grow. Turn him loose for a day on the land,
and if the spot does not happen to be a golf links or a 'scenic' area, he is bored stiff. If
crops could be raised by hydroponics instead of farming, it would suit him very well.
Synthetic substitutes for wood, leather, wool, and other natural land products suit him
better than the originals. In short, land is something he has 'outgrown.'

Almost equally serious as an obstacle to a land ethic is the attitude of the farmer for
whom the land is still an adversary, or a taskmaster that keeps him in slavery.
Theoretically, the mechanization of farming ought to cut the farmer' s chains, but
whether it really does is debatable. One of the requisites for an ecological
comprehension of land is an understanding of ecology, and this is by no means co-
extensive with 'education'; in fact, much higher education seems deliberately to avoid
ecological concepts. An understanding of ecology does not necessarily originate in
courses bearing ecological labels; it is quite as likely to be labeled geography, botany,
agronomy, history, or economics. This is as it should be, but whatever the label,
ecological training is scarce.

The case for a land ethic would appear hopeless but for the minority which is in obvious
revolt against these 'modern' trends.
The 'key-log' which must be moved to release the evolutionary process for an ethic is
simply this: quit thinking about decent land-use as solely an economic problem.
Examine each question in terms of what is ethically and esthetically right, as well as
what is economically expedient. A thing is right when it tends to preserve the integrity,
stability, and beauty of the biotic community. It is wrong when it tends otherwise.

It of course goes without saying that economic feasibility limits the tether of what can or
cannot be done for land. It always has and it always will. The fallacy the economic
determinists have tied around our collective neck, and which we now need to cast off, is
the belief that economics determines all land use. This is simply not true. An
innumerable host of actions and attitudes, comprising perhaps the bulk of all land
relations, is determined by the land-users' tastes and predilections, rather than by his
purse. The bulk of all land relations hinges on investments of time, forethought, skill,
and faith rather than on investments of cash. As a land-user thinketh, so is he.

I have purposely presented the land ethic as a product of social evolution because
nothing so important as an ethic is ever 'written.' Only the most superficial student of
history supposes that Moses 'wrote' the Decalogue; it evolved in the minds of a thinking
community, and Moses wrote a tentative summary of it for a 'seminar.' I say tentative
because evolution never stops.

The evolution of a land ethic is an intellectual as well as emotional process.

Conservation is paved with good intentions which prove to be futile, or even dangerous,
because they are devoid of critical understanding either of the land, or of economic
land-use. I think it is a truism that as the ethical frontier advances from the individual to
the community, its intellectual content increases.

The mechanism of operation is the same for any ethic: social approbation for right
actions: social disapproval for wrong actions.

By and large, our present problem is one of attitudes and implements. We are
remodeling the Alhambra with a steam-shovel, and we are proud of our yardage. We
shall hardly relinquish the shovel, which after all has many good points, but we are in
need of gentler and more objective criteria for its successful use.