We are fallen mostly into pieces but the wild returns us to ourselves

I remembered what Thoreau had written in his journal about thinking nothing of walking eight miles to greet a tree.

We are fallen mostly into pieces but the wild returns us to ourselves

Knowing another is endless,' Shepherd had written; 'The thing to be known grows with the knowing.

Anyone who lives in a city will know the feeling of having been there too long. The gorge-vision that the streets imprint on us, the sense of blockage, the longing for surfaces other than glass, brick, concrete and tarmac....I have lived in Cambridge on and off for a decade, and I imagine I will continue to do so for years to come. And for as long as I stay here, I know I will have to also get to the wild places.

Humans are animals and like all animals we leave tracks as we walk: signs of passage made in snow, sand, mud, grass, dew, earth or moss.... We easily forget that we are track-markers, through, because most of our journeys now occur on asphalt and concrete--and these are substances not easily impressed.

The compact between writing and walking is almost as old as literature -- a walk is only a step away from a story, and every path tells.