Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity.

It may not be easy, life isn't easy, but dreams keep you alive.

Trees go wandering forth in all directions with every wind, going and coming like ourselves, traveling with us around the sun two million miles a day, and through space heaven knows how fast and far!

But to gain a perfect view, one must go yet further, over a curving brow to a slight shelf on the extreme brink.

If I should be fated to walk no more with Nature, be compelled to leave all I most devoutly love in the wilderness, return to civilization and be twisted into the characterless cable of society, then these sweet, free, cumberless rovings will be as chinks and slits on life's horizon, through which I may obtain glimpses of the treasures that lie in God's wilds beyond my reach.

The gross heathenism of civilization has generally destroyed nature, and poetry, and all that is spiritual.

Going to the mountains is going home.