journal

The Land Ethic

By Aldo Leopold, from A Sand County Almanac, 1948

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 sequence may be described in ecological as

well as in philosophic 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 bullet 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 no

obligations.

The extension of ethics to this third element in the 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 cienegas 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, which 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 men and land. Despite

nearly a century of propaganda, conservation still proceeds at a snail’s pace;

progress still consists largely of letterhead pieties and conventional 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 worthwhile? 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

machinery, if you will write your own rules for land-use. Each county may write

its own rules, and they 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 elected 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 percent 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, raptorial

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 larger 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 short rather than longer. Domesticated species from other land

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 disease; 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 plant 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 of

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

plow land; many new plants and animals are introduced, some of which escaped

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, and 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 arid 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 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 which

unsuspected ways may they be essential to its maintenance? Professor Weaver

proposes that we use prairie flowers to re-flocculate the wasting soils of the dust

bowl; who knows to 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 yardsticks 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, I

of course 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-user’s

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 an 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.

About the author: Aldo Leopold was born in Burlington, Iowa, on

January 11 1887. As a boy he developed a lively interest in field ornithology and

natural history, and after schooling in Burlington, at Lawrenceville Prep in New

Jersey, and the Shefield Scientific School at Yale, he enrolled in the Yale forestry

school, the first graduate school of forestry in the United States. Graduating with

a masters in 1909, he joined the U.S. Forest Service, by 1912 was supervisor of

the million-acre Carson National Forest, and in 1924 accepted the position of

Associate Director of the U.S. Forest Products Laboratory in Madison,

Wisconsin, the principal research institution of the Forest Service at that time. In

1933 he was appointed to the newly created chair in Game Management at the

University of Wisconsin, a position he held until his death.

Leopold was throughout his life at the forefront of the conservation

movement—indeed, he is widely acknowledged as the father of wildlife

conservation in America. Though perhaps best known for A Sand County

Almanac, he was also an internationally respected scientist, authored the classic

text Game Management, which is still in use today, wrote over 350 articles,

mostly on scientific and policy matters, and was an advisor on conservation to

the United Nations. He died of a heart attack on April 21, 1948 while helping his

neighbors fight a grass fire. He has subsequently been named to the National

Wildlife Federation’s Conservation Hall of Fame, and in 1978, the John

Burroughs Memorial Association awarded him the John Burroughs Medal for his

lifework and, in particular, for A Sand County Almanac.

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