I remembered reading a quote by David Roberts where he defended the revealing of unspoiled places in his writing, even though by revealing them he risked spoiling them, because, he felt, it was his duty as a writer to do so. I couldn't find the exact quote, but found reference online to Roberts's 1996 book, In Search of the Old Ones, in which he revealed information about Anasazi sites--too much information, some thought, after visitors started showing up with his book in hand, demanding to know how to get to the sites, after which several of those sites were looted or damaged. As noted in a 2016 Outside Online profile of Roberts, he "understands the frustration" of his critics who wish he would "shut the fuck up," but "he refuses to stop exploring--or to shut the fuck up."
As a guidebook author, I have sometimes struggled deciding whether to include an off-trail path to a remote meadow or reveal my "secret" approach to an uncrowded route up a mountain out of fear the trampling herd will follow my directions and ruin the place. Even before I wrote my first guidebook, I was keenly aware that writing about a place--even talking about it--had the potential to spoil it. I'd climbed a few new routes up a previously untouched granite cliff, and feeling proud of my efforts, duly reported them to a climbing magazine. The weekend after my report was published, the place was crawling with climbers and their dogs. It was no longer fun to climb there. In fact, it sucked. And so, as I began to write guidebooks, I considered carefully the impact of an influx of human visitors to unspoiled areas and sometimes simply left them out, didn't even mention them, sometimes selfishly so as not to invite the marauding crowds to my favorite places, but also in the hope that by pretending they didn't exist, I might help them remain unspoiled a little longer. At least, no one could blame me for spoiling them. Some other writer could publish a glowing article or book about the place and face retribution for playing the role of pied piper to the trampling herd, but I would not.
Even so, I can't escape the fact that, as a guidebook author, I bear some responsibility for overcrowding on certain trails and climbing routes. The more favorably I describe a lake or waterfall, the more people want to hike there. The more stars I give a rock-climbing route, the more people line up to climb it. As more people flock to the outdoors, the more they crowd into the wilderness, the more switchbacks they cut, lake shores they erode, meadows they trample, the more litter and human and dog waste they leave behind. This feeling of responsibility makes it hard to justify the writing of guidebooks, although I am still at it. I'm not willing to "shut the fuck up," as they say, but I am willing to talk a little quieter, emphasize good wilderness etiquette, and try to spread people out by including a route less traveled here and there, to alleviate the crush of people flocking to the "best" hikes and climbs by showing them alternatives. People aren't going to stop hiking and climbing anytime soon, and publishers aren't going to stop publishing guidebooks. If I didn't write a guide, someone else would--perhaps someone who would happily reveal the secret path to the untrammeled meadow without considering the consequences. At least if I write it, I can keep some of the secrets safe. Not forever, maybe, but at least for now.