Ecotourism is hot among tour and attraction operators, it’s hot among outfitters and it’s hot among the public. It’s also hot for environmental, outdoors and natural resources journalists, yet we writers must be aware that our very coverage may raise ethical concerns—as well as the potential for stories about those concerns.

But first, what is ecotourism or “green” tourism?

There are more definitions than fingers on my hands, and it overlaps but isn’t synonymous with “adventure tourism,” which makes a uniform definition even tougher to find. I like this one from the Ecotourism Association of Australia: “ecologically sustainable tourism with a primary focus on experiencing natural areas that fosters environmental and cultural understanding, appreciation and conservation.” The Indonesia International Rural and Agricultural Development Foundation, which operates several eco-lodges, proposes this comprehensive list of principal components: dependent on the natural environment; contributes to conservation; ecologically sustainable; features interpretation and education; incorporates cultural considerations; and provides a “net return or benefit” to local communities.

In this context, we often think of Costa Rican rainforest lodges, Caribbean reef diving expeditions and eastern African wildlife photo safaris. However, ecotourism opportunities abound in the United States and Canada as well, such as rafting, camping and hiking through Dinosaur National Monument in Colorado and Utah, canoeing and fishing in the Yukon, kayaking in the Boundary Waters Wilderness of Minnesota.

Now look at some of the key challenges that ecotourism poses for outdoor writers, whose stories and photos motivate some readers and viewers to participate and provides vicarious experiences and feel-good emotions among others.

What we present and how we present it can raise public awareness of habitat and environmental threats, creating a political constituency for conservation of natural and cultural places.

But at the same time, coverage creates risks, such as unintentionally spurring overuse that damages irreplaceable resources—the old adage of “loving our parks to death” comes to mind. For example, there’s fear that the mere presence of too many divers and pleasure boats harms Australia’s Great Barrier Reef.

Other environmental threats encompass sewage disposal from remote lodges into rivers and lakes, release of fuel from boats, trail erosion from too many mountain bikes or hiking boots, collection of endangered plants, increased access for poachers and inadvertent introduction of nonnative, invasive species.

Another concern: What will happen when ecotourism becomes mass tourism? That may force limits on the number of visitors, as Grand Canyon rafters and Boundary Waters canoeists know. Or it may make it impossible for government agencies and nonprofit organizations—particularly cash-strapped foreign ones—to adequately safeguard the resources.

What roles do industry and government tourism departments play in distorting ecotourism, and do we writers play into their hands by succumbing to hype?
“Greenwashing” is sometimes used in the context of mega-corporations that clear pristine forests to build energy-hungry, water-hungry resorts and fail to invest much of their earnings locally. They may boast of recycling and solar-heated water, but their overall environmental impact is more negative than positive.

Certainly, we can write about efforts by government, industry and local communities to regulate and control development. When I was last in Australia, for example, there was an effort underway to give Great Barrier Reef tour operators 15-year rather than six-year permits. The effort was intended to simultaneously spur ecological sustainability and give them more economic security for long-term operations.

How do we report and write in light of individual and cultural ethical dilemmas? Some of us have confronted this question in deciding whether or not to publicize the location of a little-known fishing or camping spot we personally treasure, or to highlight a place with a spiritual or religious meaning.

When I was writing a recreational guidebook to the national forests of the Great Lakes region, a U.S. Forest Service information officer asked me to omit Turtle Mound—an easily accessible spot within Minnesota’s Chippewa National Forest that is sacred to local Native Americans—although it was already on the National Register of Historic Places. I agreed not to write a planned sidebar focusing on Turtle Mound but decided I couldn’t fully serve my readers without at least mentioning the site. Was I right or wrong?

Finally, do local people and community organizations play a significant role in the management and operation of the resource? Do local people act as interpreters, investors, guides and managers or do they merely do the grunt work? By setting land aside in reserves, parks and preserves to cater to tourists, does ecotourism cut these people off from traditional sources of subsistence such as fishing and hunting? Does it demean their places of spiritual and ritual importance?

Of course, we’re not solely responsible for the public impact of what we accurately write, film or photograph. Nor should fear about the possible reactions of other people dissuade us from presenting the truth. However, when it comes to covering ecotourism, we do need to exercise our professional judgment and skills in a conscientious, informed manner.