Those who travel to mountain-tops are half in love with themselves, and half in love with oblivion.

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.

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.

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

Those who travel to mountain-tops are half in love with themselves, and half in love with oblivion.

As the pen rises from the page between words, so the walker's feet rise and fall between paces, and as the deer continues to run as it bounds from the earth and the dolphin continues to swim even as it leaps again and again from the sea, so writing and wayfaring are continuous activities, a running stitch, a persistence of the same seam or stream.

All travelers to wild places will have felt some version of this, a brief blazing perception of the world's disinterest. In small measures it exhilarates. But in full form it annihilates.