September 19, 2025
A few months ago, I hiked a section of the Appalachian Trail, starting at the Vermont border and ending in Salisbury, Connecticut. On my trip, I stayed at Father Tom's campsite in Cheshire, Massachusetts. One feature of the campsite was a shed, which was graciously provided by a local church. It gives hikers access to much needed charging ports, as well as some bikes which were handy for getting around town. Across the top of the shed was a quote from Henry David Thoreau:
"Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads."
It was a quote that stuck with me for a majority of the trail. It wasn't something that I thought could be twisted to be political. In fact, I didn't really think Thoreau was saying something substantial. I thought it was obvious.
Of course heaven is beneath our feet. You feel it consistently on every step of a long hike. I felt it on every quiet ridge. I felt it walking along rivers. I felt it laying down every night. These things don't ask for attention, but they define the trail experience. The trails we walk are more than just footpaths. They are an entry point to grace.
Around the same time that I began my hike, United States secretary of agriculture Brooke Rollins made a suggestion to repeal the roadless rule. Since its introduction in 2001, the roadless rule has protected 45 million acres of national forest from new road construction and industrial development. Among those acres (which you can see a map of here) are 71 inventoried roadless areas which are crossed by the Pacific Crest Trail. This totals to around 230 miles, or about 10% of the PCT.
Walk through a roadless section of any long trail and you'll understand what is at stake: no highway hum in the distance, no cuts on the horizon, no headlights going by your tent. The kind of heaven that Thoreau referred to. With the rule gone, those miles are suddenly incredibly vulnerable to bulldozers and chainsaws.
Supporters of the rollback say more roads mean better “forest management” or firefighting access. But roads also bring erosion, polluted streams, invasive species, and more human-caused fires. Once they’re cut, they carve scars that last for generations. What vanishes in the process is something you can’t rebuild: the quiet, unbroken wildness that makes these trails sacred.
The Pacific Crest Trail is a National Scenic Trail, but it’s also a national symbol. It represents our ability to leave some places untouched — to honor heaven not only above us, but beneath our feet. If we allow these protections to be dismantled, we risk turning the PCT into a corridor between logging roads rather than a passage through wilderness.
The USDA is preparing an environmental review of its decision. Hikers, conservationists, and everyday citizens should make their voices heard. And Congress should finally codify roadless protections into law, so they can’t be whittled away by politics every few years.
When I think back to that shed in Cheshire, I realize Thoreau’s words weren’t obvious after all. They were a challenge: to see heaven under our feet, and to protect it. On trails like the PCT, that challenge has never been more urgent.