Late in August the lure of the mountains becomes irresistible. Seared by the everlasting sunfire, I want to see running water again, embrace a pine tree, cut my initials in the bark of an aspen, get bit by a mosquito, see a mountain bluebird, find a big blue columbine, get lost in the firs, hike above timberline, sunbathe on snow and eat some ice, climb the rocks and stand in the wind at the top of the world on the peak of Tukuhnikivats.

The gurus come from the sickliest nation on earth to tell us how to live. And we pay them for it.

I want my body to help fertilize the growth of a cactus or cliff rose or sagebrush or tree.

The majority of American writers today have chosen passive non-resistance to things as they are, producing sloughs of poetry about their personal angst and anomie, cascades of short stories and rivers of novels obsessed with the nuances of domestic relationships - suburban hanky-panky - chic boutique shopping mall literary soap opera. When they do speak out on matters of controversy they attack not the evils of our time but fellow writers who may insist on complaining.

Wilderness begins in the human mind.

Life is too tragic for sadness: Let us rejoice.

Roosters: The cry of the male chicken is the most barbaric yawp in all of nature.