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In America today, a moral chasm exists between those whose bodies and souls yearn for nature in the wild and those who need citified surroundings to feel fully alive. On the one hand are whitewater rapids, alpine precipices, primeval forests, and the unsettling awareness that the next turn in the trail might bring you face to face with an outraged grizzly. On the other is the thrill of the never-ending pursuit of wealth and position, fancy dining, and the unsettling awareness that the next block where the streetlights are kaput might bring you face to face with a homeless meth addict with a sharpened screwdriver and designs on your wallet, and perhaps your life.
One would expect some of the happiest of all the wilderness lovers to be the artists who cannot do without continual immersion in nature, and especially the writers whose lyric encomia rival in beauty the wondrous phenomena they describe. America has a rich tradition of nature writing, from Henry David Thoreau to George Perkins Marsh to John Muir, and more recently including Peter Matthiessen, Edward Abbey, Edward Hoagland, Barry Lopez, and John McPhee. Ecstatics who share their peak experiences with their readers, they are some of the most exhilarating writers our country has produced, venturing into the last remaining enclaves of pure wildness, and incandescent with gratitude for the splendor of the creation they are lucky enough to witness.
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