My name is Sara Close. I am an activist.

You came, you conquered, and you have the photos to prove it: the greatest outdoor experience of your lifetime. Slide after slide, your friends look on as you scroll through the stream of photos on your laptop. Like Indiana Jones, you re-live the stages of this personal ascent through these two-dimensional images like they are movie stills taken from the next greatest extreme adventure film. You cast a sidelong glance at your compadres to gauge their envy, desire and excitement from seeing these photos…

…Only you’re met with blank stares.

“Where were you again?” someone asks.

“Wow,” someone else manages. You can’t help but notice the flat tone in their voices. Like a popped balloon, you quickly tab through to the not-so-grand finale.

“You’ll just have to go there,” you say. And you, with every fiber of your being, truly hope that they do.

Though the age-old proverb echoed throughout generations by the likes of Confucius, Bonaparte and John McCarthy swears that a picture is worth a thousand words, I will have to beg to differ. And no matter how eloquent our descriptions or how amazing the photo, we all sense that being there, inspired in the outdoors, marks our existence, rocks our worlds and even defines who we are beyond words or images.

Reference the photo above—this is me, the activist, after said life-changing experience.

Ask me why I’m an activist. That’s hard to answer, but the reason is in the same vein as “Why do you climb?” or “Why do you run?” The answer is simple—because you just do. It is simple. It makes sense. It’s part of who you are. And it’s fun.

You probably cannot discern that the edge behind me is an ominous black mouth opening to a 2,500-foot sheer vertical gash in the earth. This shot doesn’t show the blood on my hands or blisters on my feet from 12 consecutive hours of jamming them in cracks so that I could feel the gravity under my feet as I walk on this ledge. You cannot see the ghost image of 12 hours prior to this photo, when my knees crumbled upon first seeing this canyon, and realizing that I felt like a tiny pebble at the edge of the Atlantic, in danger of being skipped out to sea. I can still feel the bass beats from the sound of the river ricocheting off the walls of the canyon and cutting straight through to my soul. I’m physically, mentally and spiritually vibrating from the experience of climbing in the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, even as I write this.

But if you cannot see why the girl in the photo is an activist, then hear me out, because I can sum this up in less than 1,000 words.

The moral of the story could be, “Please, go experience this.” And maybe you would, maybe you wouldn’t. I do not know your level of desire to feel both puny and awestruck as you become the ant-sized speck ascending walls twice the size of the Empire State Building.

But what if you go, only to find out this area is now closed to the public? A big sign at the trailhead says, “Temporary Closure for Restoration.” Or in another area, you can’t get in that day because of a wildlife attack—some hikers left food out overnight at their campsite, and the bear has now been shot. Or worse, a simple plaque adorns the front gate: “Closed.”

There’s a bigger take-home message here.

This space is more than just a playground—it is a sanctuary, a church and a brave new world for us all to explore. Today, I understand just how special these outdoor experiences are. But tomorrow they may not be there, unless we act today.

Conservation of parks, waterways and even inner-city paths has about as much to do with rules and regulations as getting sent to the principal’s office. When our environment is damaged by human-related impacts, the pervading conservation paradigm ensures that one of two things will happen: Either regulations and closures are put up to limit access, or hefty resources are poured into restoring the area to its natural state. Like punishing the child who acts out in grade school, these retroactive measures neither address the root cause nor allow us to experience the benefits of the classroom.

Instead, let’s focus on the only long-term, sustainable solution to conservation: you and me.

Let’s learn about our environment. Let’s question our ethics. Let’s not just be active, but be proactive by recognizing that we are responsible for preventing environmental impacts before they happen. We are smart people, you and I; let’s choose to Leave No Trace not because someone tells us to, but because we know it’s the right thing to do.

Leave No Trace is simple. Before your next trip, plan ahead and prepare. It’s not rocket science, but when the going gets tough, you will be ready to handle what Mother Nature dishes out—be it with a layer of Gore-Tex, a compass and topo, or an extra bottle of water. Dispose of waste properly. Travel and camp on durable surfaces. Be considerate of other visitors. This all sounds familiar and logical because Leave No Trace is a way of life—not a switch we turn on when we’re in the outdoors.

Activism can be simple. And one way to activate yourself is to Leave No Trace. It makes sense. It protects the places that inspire us. It’s part of who we are.

So, for all of us adventure-seekers: How far can we push it?

If we want land closures or billion-dollar restoration projects, push hard. Or, if we want our friends and someday our children to see these places beyond our laptop, in the pages of this magazine or in a history book, push for Leave No Trace.

You are an activist, too.

Sara Close is the membership and development manager for Leave No Trace, Center for Outdoor Ethics. Enter "LNT" in the promo code box when you subscribe to Wend, and 25% of the subscription fee will be donated to Leave No Trace Behind.