Robert Schnelle lives in Ellensburg, Washington. His essays have appeared previously in Weber Studies, the Seattle Review, and Writing on the Edge. His book Valley Walking: Notes on the Land was published by Washington State University Press in 1997.
See other work published in Weber Studies by Robert Schnelle: Soul-struck Soldier: Stepping Westward with Cabeza de Vaca, Voles in Their Prime.
Trespass is a grave offense in the part of the country where I live, but it's one that Robert Frost might have committed had he ever visited the inland Northwest. Washington's Kittitas Valley, though riven with section lines and stark, rectangular hayfields, resists human order where it rises from an irrigated plain into jumbled bitterbrush and pine-staggered foothills, a dry and testy land between the Cascade Range and the Columbia River. Panoramic, dusty, and wind scoured, it looks very little like Frost's New England, where this writer grew up dreaming of the Mountain West. Still, after living out here for eleven years I've begun to find similarities. Dark and snowy winters, aspen stands imitating groves of paper birch, and flinty natives working rock-ribbed soil call to mind the Yankee land of Frost's narrative verse. What's more, through my dealings with one of these Kittitas natives I've imagined more deeply the poet's own cross-grained humanity. I meet this man, sometimes, when I trespass on his land.
It is the habit of Robert Frost's oven bird to be an elusive creature that is nevertheless "a singer everyone has heard." Likewise, Don Lilja is both familiar to his neighbors and unknowable. An abrasive, purse-mouthed retiree rumored to brandish his pellet gun at evangelists, Lilja has seemed, for most of the time I've known him, too bad to be true. He ignores passersby waving to him at his mailbox, and yes, I've read his screeds on the letters page of our local paper. But whether scorning the United Nations or shooing trick-or-treaters from his door, Don Lilja at first appeared more intriguing than worrisome. Here was a former college professor, returning late in life to his boyhood home, who fashioned himself as a porcupine. Wisdom, for him, showed itself in contempt for the world, which, after all, was a diminished place crowded with spoiled latecomers. The best government he knew governed least, and property taxes were an instrument of vengeance that weaklings visit on the strong. Don Lilja's idea of good sense tasted like bile to me. Even so, I interpreted his performance as protective coloring. If nothing else, the poems of Robert Frost teach subtlety, and when you flip a porcupine on its back it's soft under all that bristle.
Frost himself was born and fledged in San Francisco, where he ran in street gangs, arriving at age ten to his family's ancestral home on the border of New Hampshire and Massachusetts. After graduating as co-valedictorian of his class (the other was his future wife), he employed himself as a sort of bouncer in his mother's country schoolhouse. He ran errands, worked for a printer, and then, unlucky in love, took a long walk in Virginia's Great Dismal Swamp, where he intended to die of neglect. Instead, overcome by hunger and a lifelong fear of the dark, Frost walked out of the woods again. In doing so he crossed many miles of private land, there being no other ownership in that time and place.
Following the more usual migration route, I grew up in New England and came west a decade ago, pulling into the Kittitas Valley in a U-Haul and exploring it first from behind the wheel, then on foot. Right away I was struck by the proliferation of fences here—barbed wire barriers to walking scored the countryside, fences in excess of need filleting the landscape as if division were the image of local character. It was clear that property lines conditioned the West more than I was used to, but I told myself to be patient. Perhaps after I had lived here a while I would understand.
Six years ago I built my house on the site of a former gravel quarry. People used to drink and hunt ducks in this place, to judge by artifacts less poignant than the crockery and crumbling cellar holes described in Frost's great poem "Directive." The U.S.G.S. Manastash Creek quadrangle locates my land where the words Borrow Pit label a shaded blob enclosing crossed shovel icons. Beside them the map shows the pale-blue amoeba of Cove Pond, and southward, lines of altitude massed or kinking up where run-off drains the hills. What the map doesn't show is the resurgent wildness that drew my family and me to buy these acres. Among the slag piles left when rock was quarried, we walk today in cottonwood shade like the shade of New England beech and maple trees. Below the surrounding sagebrush steppe, the ground falls into a charmed circle where year-round springs water scrub oaks, willows, dog rose and hawthorn thickets, clusters of yellow currant, snowberry, and the crimson-barked osier dogwood. The pond draws herons and nesting orioles; in spring, hyla frogs cheer loudly at twilight. The place gives sanctuary to anyone wandering by, which most often is only myself. Two hundred yards through the bush lives Don Lilja, my closest neighbor.
The reason why Lilja was angry, I thought, was circumstantial. Because of people like me, he woke up one day to find himself living in a low-density suburb. North of his retreat, lonesome homesteads had given way to ranchettes and the monster developments of a transient gentry. Motorists whisked along the county roads now, flattening quail and farm cats en route to the Yakima and Seattle-bound interstates. Ride-`em lawnmowers droned on weekend afternoons, and yard lights bleached the night sky. Of course, what Lilja hated was only the familiar irritant of too many people, the product of building booms from Kennebunk to Eureka. What's noteworthy here is the shape and ownership of the unbuilt land surrounding this neighborhood, 3500 vertical feet of it buckling into a broad alluvial fan. A winding canyon to the west spills Manastash Creek across the wider valley, while on either side of it our little elbow of the Kittitas is socketed with a wedge of forested uplands—territory of the Fish and Wildlife Department. Whatever abuses public lands suffer, they aren't real estate, and that makes them a refuge far beyond the scale of our little Cove Pond oasis. By crossing a few acres of thicket and the length of Lilja's hayfield, I can reach the reserve on foot; otherwise I have to drive my car a roundabout mile. My offense, I came to know, was my preference for walking. Like that of Robert Frost's narrator in "Acquainted with the Night," it felt subversive: "I have passed by the watchman on his beat/And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain."
The evidence of Frost's poems suggests that during the years before renown and fortune found him, he did a journeyman's share of sauntering. In the poem just quoted, the speaker "outwalk[s] the furthest city light." In "Good Hours" he reports, "I had for my winter evening walk—/No one at all with whom to talk…." In "The Wood-Pile," he pauses while "out walking in a frozen swamp one grey day," debating whether to turn back before deciding, "`No, I will go on farther—and we shall see.'" Unprogramed walking becomes the characteristic act for Robert Frost. As a young and unknown poet, he repeats this device so frequently that it must have been central to his way of thinking, the way that talking—great, monologic discourses—were the mark of his later, highly public years. In a lyric called "The Sound of Trees," Frost seems to propose a walker's destination: the goal of "set[ting] forth for somewhere" is to "lose all measure of pace…/And acquire a listening air."
Eventually, the poet settled on property owned by his grandfather. He and his wife and four children took nearly ten years to fail at farming, though near the end of that period, approaching age forty, he became a high school teacher. His neighbors in the southern New Hampshire countryside would have had no reason to expect anything more from Robert Frost. He seemed a borderline ne'er-do-well, a vagabond family man glimpsed while vaulting fences at twilight. A trespasser.
"Well, I won't chase you out of there," said the voice in the
telephone one day. As a new kid on the block I'd introduced myself—although,
it being December with the ground sheathed in ice, I dialed Mr. Lilja's number
instead of hazarding his road with a collie snapping at my heels. Now I was
him how I'd admired his fruit trees from the trail on Manastash Ridge. When he didn't reply, I mentioned the six-inch spear point I'd found in my garden—an archeologist friend dated the piece at eight thousand years. Had Mr. Lilja discovered anything like it on his property?
It was now or never, I thought. "I was wondering whether you'd mind if my family and I were to walk on your land. We wouldn't go near your house or trample your hay." Then came the response, however grudging, that I interpreted as permission. What he said was neutral enough at least that my wife and I were unprepared for an event that occurred several weeks later. Frozen in our seats at the dinner table we watched as a backhoe erupted from the trees beyond our window. Amid piles of slash and neatly stacked lumber, Don Lilja and his son, Rick, excavated postholes in the frozen ground. Though the act spoke for itself, I stepped out the back door to ask.
"We're putting in a fence," shouted Rick, stiffening beneath his feed cap.
"Well—what's it for?" The Liljas kept no livestock.
"What do you think? This is our property!"
In Robert Frost country, where I grew up, fence building has lapsed into the arcane pursuit of stonemasons and their well-heeled clientele. And since New England agriculture is pretty much washed up, even where walls exist you can often ignore the No Trespassing signs. People know whose sugarbush is whose. As teenagers, my friends and I made frequent if furtive use of private land. Besides, the vegetation in that cloud-wrapped country is so determined it breaches any barrier you raise. However thickly they are settled, the north woods of Yankee land make room for wandering.
All this is to the good. Frost himself condoned trespass; at least I've believed so since I first held his poetry to my ear. Everyone knows that his line, "I took the [road] less traveled by" (which I've learned to read satirically) is a license for free spirits. Likewise, in "Into My Own," the walker is "fearless of ever finding open land." But then there's the bit from "Mending Wall" that I feel sure is inscribed on Don Lilja's heart: "`Good fences make good neighbors.'" An endorsement of property rights, this? No, it only seems that way.
Composed for the 1914 volume, North of Boston, the words are spoken by a farmer (in real life, Frost's Derry, New Hampshire neighbor, Napoleon Guay) whom the narrator compares to "an old stone savage armed" as he hoists boulders into place on a wall between their land. "He moves in darkness" the speaker observes. Neither of the two men pastures cows along their border, nor will the narrator's apple trees ever "get across/And eat the cones under his pines." So the wall is gratuitous. And yet, in the mind of the speaker, its moral weight is heavier than its bulk:
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.…
Seasoned observers may note that this "something" includes winter frost heaves, which "spill the upper boulders in the sun." —And while natural destruction is bad news to most of us, for Frost it has a liberalizing effect, moving the speaker in "Mending Wall" to chide his neighbor's strict accounting. If not altogether absurd, the poet implies, ownership is less meaningful than we pretend. From this viewpoint, the neighbor's repair job becomes "just another kind of outdoor game…/There where it is we do not need the wall." —However, as if to show the futility of reasoning, the poem gives its last word to the property defender: "He says again, `Good fences make good neighbors.'"
Don Lilja's good fence comprises 480 eight-foot railroad ties spaced twelve feet apart and linked by triple sets of two-by-six boards. I estimate the cost of his project at $14,000 by the time he's done, excluding hardware and backhoe rental. Thirty-five years as a geography professor taught Lilja the value of straight lines, so the question at this point is whether he'll run his fence through the middle of Cove Pond. Precision will limit his costs, even if it means he has to fell sixty-foot trees, sluice out the pond, and plough roughshod through cattail marshes, entombing painted turtles and frogs.
Perhaps I overstate my case here, but I am the target of Don Lilja's ire. A
few weeks back, shortly after the post-hole offensive, all of our snow melted.
On a warm afternoon he caught my son and me gathering leaves where our properties run together. I must have stood a few feet over the boundary when Lilja and his grandson appeared.
"May I ask what you think you're doing?"
"I'm taking some leaves for my compost bin. I hope you don't mind." The grandson and my boy, Erik, looked each other up and down. I remember thinking that if I were to chuck a tennis ball into the bushes, they'd both chase after it. But the old man and I had business.
"As a matter of fact I do mind," he said. "I can't take responsibility for people fooling around on my property and then suing me." So that was it. Lilja himself had brought suit against a neighbor the previous year.
"I'm not going to sue you, Mr. Lilja," I said. His eyes narrowed. He set his mouth in a line.
"That's what you say now. But I've lived a lot longer than you have, and don't you forget it." Shifting tack, he asked, "You see that dog there?" I did—it was Lilja's collie lifting a leg on my Echinacea.
"Under the law it is your right to shoot that dog if it's bothering you. It's on your side of the property line; you can shoot it."
"Mr. Lilja, I'm not going to shoot your dog."
He scoffed, but I was almost enjoying myself. Given a trace more of wit, this man might be taken for one of Frost's hill farmers—monosyllabic guys who compensate for years of silence if you get them started. Don Lilja is no stand-in for Frost himself, yet our dialogue was shaping up as a Frostian moment. In a 1942 poem, "To a Young Wretch," the speaker infers the fate of a spruce tree chopped on his land. The neighbor kid who's always skulking around must have cut it for Christmas: "You link an arm in its arm and you lean/Across the light snow homeward smelling green." Subsequent stanzas turn on the narrator's effort to balance loss with gain. For Frost, the consolation of philosophy (this poem is subtitled Boethian) lies in acknowledging a neighbor's simple pleasure—a right that parallels legal ownership:
It is your Christmases against my woods.
But where, thus, opposing interests kill,
They are to be thought of as opposing goods
Oftener than as conflicting good and ill.
In "To a Young Wretch," Frost allows self-interest to shake hands with the commonweal.
Now, I wouldn't dream of taking an ax to my neighbor's woods, but I enjoy the thought of Don Lilja's reaction ("Bullshit!") if I were to quote him Frost's poem. In fact, on that warm winter day, he told me to consider myself warned. He didn't want to find me on his property again.
"But what about him?" I asked, palming the head of seven-year-old Erik (my own young wretch). "Where will he play? Should I drop him off at a shopping mall or send him inside to watch television?" The Lilja boy grimaced, a copy of my own.
"I am protecting the land for my grandson. This will be his some day."
"But still," I persisted, "what is the difference between these kids? I don't see it."
"You've been warned," he repeated, and taking his grandson's hand, he beat it.
I've been claiming Robert Frost for a partisan in my dispute with fence builders. In life, the man behind the poems suffered more than his share of private divisions, which partly explains his thirst for public contact. During the 1940s and fifties, prizes, speeches, television appearances—even a diplomatic mission to the Soviets—filled his calendar, while the poems he wrote grew hortatory. There is relief in turning from this image of Frost toward another, also from his later years, that I hope better captures the inner man. In a photograph dated 1958, we see Frost in an old cloth overcoat, clutching a walking stick and turning from the camera as he shuffles into a field of snow. A small dog follows in his tracks.
The final word on Frost's sympathies might as well come from the poem "Trespass," which appeared in the same volume as "To a Young Wretch":
No, I had set no prohibiting sign,
And yes, my land was hardly fenced.
Nevertheless the land was mine:
I was being trespassed on and against.
William F. Buckley once said that people who equate property with theft haven't owned any. Even Thomas Jefferson believed that land titles ensure political rights. What Jefferson may have overlooked, unfortunately, is the inverse equation: people obsessed with individual rights often insist on sole entitlement—a loss for everyone else. A capitalist himself, Robert Frost took part in several land-speculation schemes during his lifetime. Yet in "Trespass," shame forces him to acknowledge (if not to like) the "surly freedom" of an interloper. He tells us that the presence of the trespasser "[gave] me a strangely restless day," and he traces the walker's route on foot. Down by the speaker's brook, the trespasser may have gone searching for fossil trilobites, common in that region but entailing "little property right." Or, the landowner proposes, he busied himself in the woodlot. In any case, Frost's narrator concludes that the theft of some commodity is not his complaint. It is rather the stranger's "ignoring what was whose" that gives him pause.
Accordingly, the speaker's insight occurs in the final stanza when his transgressor appears, knocking at the back door to ask for a drink. Says Frost, it is "an errand he may have had to invent," but it is an acknowledgment that restores peace of mind. For the poem ends in a sociable gesture that is also a way of balancing possession rights with rights of use; it satisfies both the intellect and the heart. On the contrary, it is my own neighbor's refusal to have dealings with me that stings. The essential Frostian moment occurs as a meeting of minds. It arrives on an impulse to communicate, setting the poet on his feet and the walker on his path.
Since Don Lilja doesn't want to talk to me, I'm asking everyone else I know these days, "Do fences make good neighbors?" Robert Frost decided not, as he would proclaim most famously while trespassing against a villager in "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening":
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
We live in xenophobic times. The Berlin Wall is succeeded by others on the Mexican border, at airport checkpoints, along the perimeters of upscale housing tracts, and in the imaginations of fearful people everywhere. Our libertarian freedoms are hollowed by a lack of open space where we could meaningfully enact them. When Frost's White House patron, John F. Kennedy, declared himself a Berliner, he spoke metaphorically. But we are all Berliners now.