Take A Number To Take a Hike

By J.D. Reed

"White water! White water!" yelps Neil Kaminsky, an Albuquerque physician and veteran rafter, as he maneuvers through 5 ft.-tall, "haystack" waves on Idaho's roaring Salmon River. It may not be everyone's idea of a great vacation, but Kaminsky counts himself lucky to be out there risking his life. The U.S. Forest Service, which administers the Salmon and other prime Idaho rivers, grants just 1,100 permits to rafting parties annually. They are chosen by lottery from more than 11,000 applicants.

For Americans, heading into the wilderness is more than a national rite -- it is a national right. Until recently, national-park visitors, for instance, simply pitched tents in any inviting clearing if established % campsites were filled. These days, however, would-be travelers had better not hit the trail without first making a reservation. The problem: many natural attractions are experiencing "greenlock." Not only are popular parks from Acadia in Maine to Yosemite in California jammed with visitors, but the overcrowding is spreading to state parks, national forests and rivers, raising environmental concerns and threatening the wilderness "experience." Everywhere, authorities are having to ration the outdoors with lotteries, permits and reservations for everything from biking to hiking. "It's ironic," observes University of California historian Roderick Nash. "By making wilderness popular, we now have to save it from its friends."

Many of the nearly 60 million visitors expected in the 50 national parks this year will be what rangers call "windshield tourists," who rarely leave their cars to enjoy the sights. Those who hope to camp out amid the natural splendors during the summer high season are best advised to book well in advance. Since the early '80s, the National Park Service has sold campsites ($7-$15 a night) in 13 of the most popular parks through the Ticketron reservation service. So great is demand at Yosemite that the 200-plus daily openings, which go on sale eight weeks in advance, are snapped up in less than five minutes. Even bicyclists hoping to pedal Canyonlands National Park's scenic Island in the Sky trail in Utah must apply at least two months ahead. Most parks keep a portion of sites off the Ticketron computers, offering them to campers on a daily basis. But getting a space without a reservation can mean hours of waiting in line with no guarantee of success. "Don't think you can just bop into any park and find someplace to stay at the last minute," says the Park Service's Priscilla Baker. "You might spend the night in your car."

The same advice applies to other lands and waters. Backpackers competing for summertime space in the famous shelters along the Appalachian Trail, from Maine to Georgia, must preregister months in advance. And it is the same for Arizona's Aravaipa Canyon, a stream-fed desert site with unique wildlife, where only 50 camping permits are granted daily.

Getting on the water is also difficult. Most of the 22,000 slots for riding the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon go to commercial companies. Individuals face a minimum waiting time of three to five years. The toughest permit: the one to traverse Northern Idaho's Selway River, a rafter's prize because it is navigable only a few weeks of the year. The odds of winning the pass are 33 to 1.

How to find more elbowroom? Avoid weekends and famous attractions like Old Faithful; be willing to venture farther afield. The National Forest System and the Bureau of Land Management boast millions of acres of uncrowded and unspoiled territory. Veteran Tennessee hiker Jim Botts, for instance, shuns crowded Great Smoky Mountains National Park for the lesser known bogs of Joyce Kilmer Wilderness in North Carolina.

Some experts foresee a small clearing in the thickets: as the baby boomers age, their pursuit of rugged outdoor activities like white-water rafting and hiking the high trails is likely to decline. But Park Service officials expect the more accessible locales to increase in popularity as boomers take to their BMWs and Tauruses with a vengeance, clogging the outback roads and sullying woodlands air. "The day is coming when not everybody who wants to get into the parks will be able to," warns Patricia Schifferle, a regional director of the Wilderness Society. "It will be like a sold-out rock concert." If that happens, future campers will be singing the blues.

With reporting by J. Madeleine Nash/Salmon River and Rosanne Spector/Washington, with other bureaus