IRREVERENT, EARTHY MATRIARCHS KEEP TABS ON THE LAND
11/6/94

Byline: By Brandon Griggs THE SALT LAKE TRIBUNE

MOAB -- Ask to join a bunch of Great Old Broads on a hike and the response you'll likely get is, ``Sure. As long as you can keep up with us.'' This is not as easy as it sounds. It's not that these aging women will leave stragglers in the dust, although they set a brisk pace. More exhausting -- and exhilarating -- is their vast enthusiasm for the geology, topography, history, plant and animal life of the land they're hiking through.

That, and their unflagging sense of humor.

``Some women say, `How can you call yourselves Great Old Broads?' '' says member Ginger Harmon. ``The answer, of course, is that if you don't think it's funny, you shouldn't be in the group.''

Great Old Broads for Wilderness: The name conjures up images of graying, earthy,irreverent matriarchs trooping through the woods in hiking boots and backpacks. And that's just about right. These are hardy, vigorous women, some with lined, weathered faces as rich in character and experience as the craggy canyons they are trying to protect.

``Look at us. We're not exactly debutantes,'' says founder and president Susan Tixier, resting with a dozen other Broads during a hike in Gold Bar Canyon, about eight miles west of Moab.

It's a sunny Sunday afternoon in October, and the women are gathered in southeastern Utah for the group's 4th Annual Wilderness Conference, which consists, characteristically, of a few speeches and a lot of hiking. A handful of Broads even skipped a Saturday afternoon writers' workshop in favor of a two-hour hike up Negro Bill Canyon, which just goes to show: You can only keep a Great Old Broad out of the wilderness for so long.

Most of these women have been tramping through the mountains, valleys and canyons of the West for years, but it wasn't until 1989 that their eccentric brand of environmentalism found an outlet. Tixier and some friends were eating lunch at Redfish Lake in Idaho's Sawtooth Mountains when a rugged group of women backpackers emerged from the woods.

``They were tan and dirty, with gray hair and bare legs,'' Tixier recalls. ``And I thought, `If Congress could just see these great old broads.' ''

Why Great Old Broads? ``There has to be humor,'' she says. ``If you take this stuff too seriously, you end up blowing your brains out. I think that people who lack humor lack passion. And Great Old Broads have passion.''

By the end of 1989, Great Old Broads for Wilderness was born in Utah as a non-profit, grass-roots environmental organization. Tixier printed T-shirts, and placed notices in outdoors magazines and environmental newsletters. Word spread, and Tixier began charging $25 for annual memberships and mailing members a witty newsletter called Broadsides. Today, there are 1,000 Great Old Broads nationwide -- most in Western and Northeastern states.

Although most members are fiftyish women, Broadness, so to speak, is a state of mind. You don't have to be old to join, and you don't even have to be a woman. Men are allowed, although there are only several dozen male members and most joined through their wives. Broads range from graduate students in their 20s to great-grandmothers in their 80s. The oldest Broad is an 87-year-old woman who still hikes regularly near her Colorado home.

The group was formed, members say, partly to debunk the myth that the nation's dwindling wilderness areas are playgrounds only for the young. Great Old Broads want to show legislators that the elderly, who vote in higher percentages than people in their 20s, still hike and camp in the outdoors and care about its preservation.

``If older women can get in and use the wilderness without help, then anybody can,'' says Frandee Johnson, 56, a GOB charter member from Boulder, Colo. Johnson believes the Great Old Broads hold a unique status among environmental groups competing for legislators' attentions. ``We have a certain wisdom. We've been through a lot. And I think we command a certain respect, whether it's deserved or not.''

Broads pester politicians about supporting wilderness preservation bills. They write letters to their senators. A handful of Broads once traveled to Washington, D.C., to lobby Congress on wilderness bills in Utah, California and Alaska.

``You've never seen anything funnier than six old ladies walking down the halls of Congress,'' says Tixier. ``We all had our [Great Old Broads] T-shirts on. It was hysterical.''

Tixier once brought a group of Utah legislators hiking in southern Utah to promote a bill that would designate 5.1 acres of federal land as wilderness. Somehow, despite the narrow canyon, several of the politicians got temporarily lost. ``I thought, ``Oh My God!' '' recalls Tixier in mock horror. ``We've just lost the Speaker of the House!'' Whether the Great Old Broads' lobbying efforts have had an impact is unclear. The Utah Wilderness Bill, H.R. 1500, won't be voted on until at least next year, and Tixier cannot point to any Broad-influenced legislative victories. But the Broads are barely 5 years old, and members say they expect their influence to grow as they boost awareness of the group and sharpen their lobbying attack. ``We're still feeling our way,'' says Frandee Johnson.

To understand Great Old Broads for Wilderness, one must first get to know the Broads themselves. Who are these self-described ``canyon crones? They are professionals, many with advanced degrees, who are active in environmental groups in their home states. They are sensuous free spirits who, when there's no one else around, have been known to hike naked because ``it feels so good.'' And they are students of their natural surroundings who can talk knowledgeably about poison oak, soil erosion, the composition of coyote turds or the relative nutritional merits of granola vs. Power Bars.

They are: -- Ginger Harmon, 64, of Tucson, Ariz. and Ketchum, Idaho, who recently emerged from a two-month ackpacking trip through the Escalante canyons of southern Utah, where she named an undiscovered march after the Great Old Broads. Harmon has led hikes through Nepal, Europe, Hawaii, Alaska and Mexico, and spends more nights in a sleeping bag than she does in a bed. Even when a bed is available, Harmon often unrolls her sleeping bag and flops on a couch instead.

-- Cecelia Hurwich, 74, of Berkeley, Calif., who began hiking when she was in her 40s and knows the trails of Yosemite National Park like her own back yard. Now that her children are grown, Hurwich says she has more time to devote to causes that are important to her. ``I hope I can do this for 10 more years,'' she says.

-- Joan Toole, 71, of Helena, Mont., and her sister, Sheila Metcalf, 70, of Phillipsburg, Mont. Toole is active in Montana environmental politics while Metcalf leads a weekly hiking group. Both sisters have served on local boards and say they must temper their views to suit the conservative climates of their hometowns, where grazing and mining are volatile issues.

-- And there's the tireless Tixier, 52, whose father once helped mining companies locate uranium deposits. (``He never much did like what I do,'' she says.) Armed with a law degree, Tixier was associate executive director for the Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance for seven years. She left Utah in September for a job with Ozone Action, a Washington, D.C.-based group dedicated to preserving the Earth's ozone layer. For all her cheekiness, Tixier is single-mindedly devoted to her wilderness causes.

``It's a passion. You have to give some of your heart to it. I know it's important enough that it's worth fighting for,'' she says. Tixier pauses, suddenly choking back tears. ``Not for me, but for my granddaughter. And for other people's grandchildren.''

Caress of the wind: What's the appeal of wilderness for these women? If you have to ask, you may never know. It's more than mere hiking alone. It's the caress of the wind, the blush of the autumn leaves,the sunny glow of the slickrock, the unpredictability of the twisting path ahead. It's the presence in these canyons of all who have come before. And the promise of all who will follow.

``You can't buy what I'm talking about. You can't own what I'm talking about,'' Tixier says. ``But you can share it and you can give it.'' The Great Old Broads' enemies are the usual cast of environmentally incorrect characters: strip miners, old-growth loggers and ranchers whose cattle graze on federal lands. But the Broads also rail against hunters, dirt bikers, off-road enthusiasts and climbers or hikers who leave behind traces of their passage. Tixier is constantly stooping along the trail to pick up cigarette butts or other pieces of litter. And upon finding a stone fire pit in a canyon cave, the women dismantle it and toss the rocks into a nearby pool.

The Broads even break up cairns -- piles of rocks that mark trails -- as they walk along. This is not done to annoy following hikers. But Tixier believes that if hikers become used to looking for cairns, they become too reliant on them, and most trails are clearly marked anyway. Besides, she says, ``There's such joy in being lost.''

Traversing a wooded trail or a slickrock canyon, these women not only feel closer to nature, they feel closer to themselves -- and to each other. There is an easy camaraderie among them, forged by age, sex and common interests and free from the sometimes awkward dynamics of male-female interaction.

``There's a general feeling among GOBs that you don't have a lot to lose as far as appearances goes. You're freed up to do what you want to do,'' says Brenda Centurie, 53, a retired nurse from Seattle who just earned a degree in environmental science. ``You can find kindred spirits at your stage of life, whatever that may be.''

Women hikers, perhaps more than men, take time to savor their surroundings, says Laurie Wilson, 43, a Denver financial consultant who enjoys the Broads' testosterone-free atmosphere. ``It's not just a macho thing,'' she says. ``It's not just climb up, climb down.'' Many of the younger Broads say they are inspired by the members who remain active well into their 70s. ``They're heroes to me,'' says Annie Stine, 45, of San Francisco. ``It's where I'd like to be in 30 years.'' And in turn, the older Broads say they are energized by their younger counterparts.

``While we're together, it's not like we're talking about women's issues. So it's not fulfilling that need,''says Angie Wulfow, 42, of San Rafael, Calif., who handles public relations for a national marine sanctuary in Northern California. ``It's just the desire to be with other women.''

The Broads have reached the end of their five-hour hike. Nobody looks tired. If anything, they look more invigorated than when they started. The late afternoon sun glistens on the nearby Colorado River and warms them as they gather around their cars, sharing water and planning another outing for the next day. Everyone is beaming. These aging women defy nature as they celebrate it. And they feel ... well, great.

NEVER SAY QUIT