Common Ground
/By Stephanie Maltarich, produced by Out There Podcast
Released on February 11, 2021
Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.
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(Out There theme music starts)
WILLOW: Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.
The past year has created tensions that have forced many of us into difficult conversations with the people we love. From racial justice to proper pandemic behavior to a highly politicized presidential election, many of us have found ourselves navigating muddy waters with family and close friends. But for some, difficult conversations were already the norm long before 2020.
So. How do we nurture relationships with our loved ones, when their values contradict our own?
On this episode, Stephanie Maltarich tells the story of a trip she took with her father in rural Ohio. The week they spent together outdoors highlighted the deep divides that existed in their politics and values...but their conversations around the campfire also laid some groundwork for reconciling with those divides.
I’ll let Stephanie take it from here.
(theme music comes to an end)
STEPHANIE MALTARICH: One of my dad’s favorite photos of us is from a weekend at Camp when I was a toddler. I’m sitting on a pile of slabby rocks around the firepit; my feet dangle slightly above the ground. I’m wearing tiny jeans and a zip-up hoodie. I cling to a pacifier between my lips, and unruly brown curls frame my face. I watch intently as my dad stokes the coals while adding wood to the fire.
(a strumming sound and then upbeat, twinkly music begins to play)
Back then, my family spent a lot of time at Camp. Camp was a small plot of land my dad bought in southeastern Ohio following his time in Vietnam. The tiny parcel is located a few hours’ drive from where we lived outside of Cleveland.
But shortly after that photo was taken, we moved to Colorado. And we stopped going to Camp. Growing up, the photo remained my only memory of the land that my mom now refers to as my dad’s refuge, his Walden Pond.
(music stops)
Now, several decades later, we both have a love for the outdoors. But our love is very different.
I thrive on adventure. I love to explore new locations in the mountains by biking, running and skiing, and I rarely visit the same place twice.
In college I made friends with people who liked to hike and backpack and rock climb. I fell in love with carrying heavy loads on my back, bagging peaks and sleeping beneath the stars.
After college, I prioritized adventure in every way. I moved to Ecuador and learned how to rock climb. I learned to read the lines of ridges on topo maps. I used crampons and an ice axe while navigating glaciated peaks in Mexico. I led teenagers on month-long backpacking trips in the Rocky Mountains.
Eventually, I moved to a mountain town. I adventured before work, after work, on the weekends, and took long trips each off season. Life was centered on existing in wild spaces: exploring every contour line on the map, every remote trailhead, making goals for double digits of nights spent in the dirt.
(jaunty music starts)
But my dad, he prefers what he knows. He doesn’t seek out new places or adventure. He wants an unspoiled place, where he can go whenever he wants to do whatever he wants: chop wood, build campfires, fish on lakes, and shoot his gun.
Even though he now lives in Colorado, he still makes the trek back to his camp in Ohio — several times a year. Seriously, he drives 20-plus hours across the country to cut down trees and sit around a campfire IN OHIO smoking cigars.
(music comes to an end)
While in Vietnam, he discovered that he liked sleeping on the ground. He dreamt of returning home and finding some land to call his own. He admits this might sound odd. He once told me, “You’d think sleeping on the ground in the Army would have turned me off!” But it didn’t.
His first visit to Camp remains vivid.
(warm music starts)
He heard about the property from a friend, and he drove down for a weekend with my mom to see what it was like.
The property was open and barren from years of sheep and cattle grazing. But a solitary oak tree, alive and undisturbed, stood in the middle of the property. He knew then that singular oak tree would provide growth and life.
They didn’t think long about the decision. They put in an offer for $2,000, money my dad saved while in the army, and the owners accepted it at a discount since the entire property slanted slightly downhill.
Over the years, when my dad talked about his time spent at Camp, it wasn’t somewhere I felt compelled to visit. It didn’t have trails or altitude. I couldn’t ride my mountain bike or find a rock wall to climb.
So when my dad asked if I might want to join him at Camp sometime, my stomach turned. My vacation time was already too valuable and overallocated. I planned trips to the desert, bikepacking trips, road trips along Oregon’s coast. I imagined idle time with my dad in Appalachia, and I couldn’t dig deep enough to find the slightest desire to join him. He’d ask, and I’d reply, “Gosh dad, I don’t know if I can make it happen this year.”
(contemplative piano music starts)
But then he turned 70. And I was creeping into my mid-thirties. Time felt fleeting as the lines around his face, and mine, deepened. He developed a limp when he walked, which he blamed on years of running around the concrete streets around our neighborhood.
I wasn’t sure if it was now or never, but I decided that now seemed to be as good a time as any.
(music rises and then ends )
A few months later, we sat at the picnic table aiming our BB guns at a dangling aluminum can. I squinted and pulled the trigger and soon heard the glorious ping signifying my good shot. I smiled and looked over at my dad. He smiled back and lit a cigar.
(strumming music begins to play)
We had arrived the day before, driving in on a windy country road. Lush green oak, maple and walnut trees lined each curve. I felt lost and out of place. Out West, you can see for miles, so it’s easy to figure out where you are by way of the mountains. But in rural Ohio, each converging road and stop sign looked like the next.
We rolled to a stop on a dead-end gravel road, and as my dad killed the ignition, I realized we’d arrived. A short tunnel of bushes and trees led us down to Camp. It was different than I remembered. The campsite itself felt small. Yet towering trees, 50 to 60 feet in height, created a canopy encircling the area. Dad pointed out the once solitary oak tree, which was now lost in the lush forest.
Camp was littered with small structures: a picnic table, benches, tent platforms. I was impressed by the craftsmanship and care, and how my dad had made this place a home.
(music fades away)
He put me to work right away.
“I’ve got a tree I need to cut down,” he said while grabbing his bow saw.
He handed me the tool, and I struggled to master the back-and-forth motion he seemed to perform with ease.
“No, like this,” he’d say while standing next to me, demonstrating the proper technique.
Back and forth, back and forth. I saw little progress as I soaked through my t-shirt. The humidity felt suffocating.
Once the notch grew deep enough, we placed our hands side by side on the trunk, and gave several hefty shoves. We didn’t yell “Timber”, but we felled it to the ground. Then, we cut it into pieces.
That was day one.
In the following days, he took me on a motorboat tour of the nearby reservoir. He taught me about the history of the area and the jobs created constructing dams after the Great Depression. We visited the local bar, where we played music on the jukebox.
But mostly, we spent time around the campfire. Sitting on the same granite slabs I sat on as a toddler, I cringed, watching him spray gasoline on the wood to get the fire going. I yelled at him when he threw plastic trash into the flames, reminding him that he was releasing toxic chemicals into the air.
But as much as I criticized him, I was also hungry for the stories he told. There were tales about my mom’s big Italian family and his Croatian grandfather; his father’s experience in World War II, and his own in Vietnam. The more he told me, the more I wanted to hear. I wanted to remember everything he said.
WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. We’ll hear the rest of Stephanie’s story in a moment. But first…
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And now, back to Stephanie’s story.
STEPHANIE: I didn’t plan to talk about politics, because I knew we didn’t agree on much. On national holidays, he hangs a “Don’t Tread on Me” flag from his front porch. Whereas I’m always going on about social justice and the environment. But I couldn’t help but ask about the gas leases.
Several years before our trip, an energy company discovered the land below the rolling hills surrounding Camp was ripe in shale and conducive to fracking. They promptly contacted property owners in the area to offer money to lease their land.
The phone rang and rang. They left messages. But my dad ignored them.
This went on for several years. But eventually, he gave in.
Back at the campfire, I watched my dad as he flipped his T-bone steak over the open flame. I asked why he held out for so long.
I was optimistic: “Was it because you didn’t want anything to happen to Camp?”
“Nope,” he said. “I held out because of the deal.”
(melancholy music begins to play)
I felt deflated. I had hoped, like me, he had enough love for this piece of land, that he didn’t want to see it ruined — that he didn’t want the community around Camp to be exploited. But he’s a businessman.
He assured me that the wells would run underground, and the land surrounding Camp would remain the same if — and when — they ever drilled. I felt like he was missing the point.
Over the years, I had spent time advocating for conservation of our public lands, calling senators, speaking out in small ways to oppose various extractive proposals. My time in wild spaces had taught me so much. These places were worth protecting. I wanted them to stay pristine.
A few days at Camp left me wanting to protect this place, too. But Camp sat in one of the poorest counties in Ohio. According to my dad, it was the center of the opioid epidemic in the state. He argued that the community welcomed the idea of development.
I understood. I noticed the homes along the winding country roads: many were old and dilapidated, paint peeled off the sides and the surrounding structures were disintegrating. I understood money talks, and extracting gas meant houses could be repainted. Money promised hope and prosperity.
But I also understood that fracking in small rural communities often came with complicated costs. Some communities have linked their contaminated groundwater to the extractive practice. There are greenhouse gas emissions, earthquakes, boom and bust economies...the list of problems seemed to be a never ending spiral of doom.
(music comes to a stop)
I’d love to say that a week at Camp resolved our differences. That didn’t happen.
We didn’t agree on his choice to lease his land. We didn’t agree on the same definition of progress. And we certainly didn’t agree on politics. But through these conversations around the fire, we did find some common ground.
As the days passed, his words continued to convey a love for the land, for the place and his memories. I realized he, too, liked things to remain how they once were. Whether that constant existed in the community, the local bar, or his small piece of land, his nostalgia, in some weird way, seemed to align with my own passion for conservation.
(music rings out and begins to grow)
One evening he admitted something: he said that although he wasn’t an environmentalist, he felt at the minimum, humans needed to hold some regard for the natural world. It was in that moment I realized he did care — in his own way.
Seeing him in his element, his favorite place, while getting to know him more deeply, gave me some compassion for his beliefs. I knew he loved his little plot, but seeing him in the place made me realize it in a way I didn't understand before.
From the stories of loneliness and losing friends in Vietnam, to tearing up while he spoke about his own father, to his unwavering respect to the generations who worked hard with their hands and hearts on the land we sat upon, I started to see the soft side of him. His warmth. His sentimentality.
My time at Camp, on this unremarkable piece of land in Ohio, helped us connect. It gave us time to talk through our differences and understand one another.
As we packed up the car at the end of the week, my dad motioned me over to the fire pit.
“We need to get our photo,” he said. All week he talked about wanting to replicate his favorite picture of us sitting on the rocky slabs around the firepit, 30-something years later. This time he put his arm around me and we smiled into the camera.
When we made it back to Colorado, I bought a frame that held two photos: one space for each snapshot of us around the firepit. My dad smiled when I gave him the gift, and now it sits above his desk.
The photos, much like the land, remind me of what’s changed over time. As an adult, I’ve developed my own lens and choose how I see the world. I’m firmly rooted in my values and beliefs, all of which are much different than my dad’s. But after that week in Ohio, I started seeking understanding of his values and beliefs because, well, he’s my dad, and I love him.
I won’t stop loving my dad because of what he believes, and he will never stop loving me. We will still experience frustrations, we will continue to engage in difficult conversations, and it’s likely that I will sometimes get angry over our differences. But we will forever continue to seek some sort of understanding.
And we have Camp to thank for that.
(music grows in richness and volume for a few moments then becomes softer)
WILLOW: That was Stephanie Maltarich. She’s an audio producer living in Gunnison, Colorado, and she was one of Out There’s interns during the fall of 2020. If you’d like to see those two photos of Stephanie and her dad, head over to our website, outtherepodcast.com.
(music slowly stops)
If you enjoyed this story, you might also like a story that ran a couple of years ago, called “The Truths We Hold”. It’s a story about our beliefs — about things we’re brought up to know to be true — and about what causes us to question those beliefs. I have a link to that story in the show notes.
(soft guitar music plays)
Before you go, I have a question for you.
We’ve had to adapt to a lot since the start of the pandemic. Restaurants have started serving customers in makeshift structures on the sidewalk, exercise studios host classes in the park, religious leaders address their communities in parking lots, and pop-up tents are the new clinics.
Many of these adaptations have been adequate. But at the end of the day, they’re temporary solutions. They’re a way for us to endure hardship while the world is on pause. Once the pandemic is over, we’ll be glad to go back to our old ways.
But what I’d like to know from you is: what has gotten better since it’s been moved outdoors? I don’t want to belittle the hardships. Life has been REALLY TOUGH this past year. But do you have any examples of something that’s actually IMPROVED, now that it happens outside? Did you come up with a new idea for your business — something that’s so good you want to keep it going, once the world gets back to normal? Do you have new daily rituals you want to continue? Changes in lifestyle? Newfound relationships?
We want to hear all of it! Send us a voice message, and tell us what’s gotten better for you, since being moved outdoors. You can email us a voice memo, or you can click the link in the show notes to record a message. We can't wait to hear your responses, and we might use some of them on the show.
A big thank you to Linda Lockhart, Doug Frick, Phil Timm, Tara Joslin, Mike Ludders, and Deb and Vince Garcia, for their financial contributions to Out There.
To make a gift of your own, you can find us on Venmo @outthere-podcast, or head over to outtherepodcast.com and click “support.”
(Out There theme music starts )
If you’re new to Out There, check out our Best of Out There playlist. You can find it on Spotify, and at our website, outtherepodcast.com. Best of Out There is a list of some of our favorite episodes of all time. It’s a great way to get a taste for our storytelling, if you’ve just discovered the show.
That’s all for today. Our strategic advisor is Alex Eggerking; our advertising manager is Jessica Taylor; Sheeba Joseph is our audience growth director; our interns are Cara Schaefer, Forrest Wood and Cecily Mauran; our ambassadors are Ashley White, Stacia Bennett and Tiffany Duong; and our theme music was written by Jared Arnold.
We’ll see you in two weeks!
(music ends on a last whistling note followed by a final strum of the guitar)
