My Turn: Earth, home, and clarity of distance

In the 1960s, the very first photograph taken from outer space did more to shift humans' understanding of the ground under their feet than any other single event in history.

The NASA image of Earth, brilliant blue, swathed in veils of clouds, and alone against the blackness of the cosmos, moved and shook us. We -- humanity -- knew from that photo, in a way that dry theory could never inform us, that this small, exquisite planet was our only home.

The first Earth Day 36 years ago celebrated this new icon for our planet's wholeness and fragility. Today, high-resolution, computer-generated satellite images continue to reshape the way we see ourselves, giving us the clarity of distance, revealing our impacts to this vulnerable, interconnected globe at regional and local scales.

Images of the Northeastern United States are sobering. With satellite-based maps, we have a visual means of grasping the enormous extent to which our region is affected by houses, roads, industry, agriculture, and other human activities.

By the same means, it is clear how little is left of what once covered this region, from the seashore to the highest summits: wild Nature, the life-support system for our region and for the planet.

In 2002, the Wildlife Conservation Society published a study -- "The Human Footprint and the Last of the Wild" (http://www.wcs.org/media/file/human_footprint2.pdf

Not surprisingly, the study showed the Northeast to be a heavily developed region dominated by human inhabitation and activity. Nearly the entire Eastern Seaboard is color-coded red and orange, indicating intense use and alteration from its former natural state. Other parts of the planet dominated by human use to such a degree include central Europe and the Indian subcontinent.

In this region, however, there are a few small patches of green -- the "last of the wild" -- still visible from the illuminating perspective of space. The most sizable is the Adirondack Park, in New York State. Surprisingly however, another, though much smaller, wild place shows up in Vermont.

This patch of wild land, the only one still sizable enough in our state to register from space, is the 100,000-acre Glastenbury-Lye Brook wilderness complex in the southern Green Mountain National Forest.

This is land large enough for a moose, bear, or fisher -- or for that matter, a human -- to roam for days and never see or hear a car, never pass by a house, never look upon anything but trees, beaver ponds, clear-running brooks, the mossy-soft forest floor, and the sky above.

This lovely, verdant jewel is at risk. Logging, road-building, and off-road motorized recreation threaten to shatter the integrity of the area, most of which is not yet permanently protected. The recently introduced Vermont Wilderness Bill, as currently written, would shelter some but not nearly enough of the area from these intrusions.

For example, the very heart of the Glastenbury Mountain area -- its gentle, 3,748-foot summit -- is left out of the bill. Other vital lands, including a 12,000-acre swath at the north end of the Glastenbury area, and the headwaters of Lye Brook and the Winhall and Deerfield rivers, are also omitted.

Without congressional designation of the entire Glastenbury-Lye Brook complex as wilderness, this rare outpost of wild nature will probably not be large and intact enough to show up as a small green island on the next satellite map. It will fade into the matrix of lands we humans have appropriated and altered to serve largely human needs.

If we cannot protect the one remaining, big wild place in our home region, how do we expect to live within the limits of our home planet? On Earth Day 2006, we need to ask, "What room will we leave for wild nature on this planet? What room will we leave for the systems that support all life?"

From the perspective of space, these questions are more urgent than ever.

Mollie Matteson is deputy director of Forest Watch.