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

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

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.

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

A basic language-literacy of Nature is falling from us. And what is being lost along with this literacy is something perhaps even more valuable: a kind of language-magic, the power that certain words possess to enchant our imaginative relations with Nature and landscape.

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

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.