Quotes About Wilderness

In the summer of '67, as a buffalo on the run

The language of the wilderness is the most beautiful language we have and it is our job to sing it, until and even after it is gone, no matter how much it hurts.

The house was still as northern woods in winter, when all the creatures are gone.

Born to be Wild. She is the Wild Girl. We call her that because, like our natural wilderness, she follows her own laws. She is part of all of us, no matter what our age or sex. She is freedom and joy, love of the quest and of movement. She is creativity and serenity. She is springtime, full of potential and energy. She is the seed and the sprout, bursting with life. She is the path through the forest, and she is the forest itself.

Jump in the air! Fall in the dirt. Just make sure no one gets hurt! Go…Moose!

Womangrove root and firefern lined the banks, and each branch and twisting

My death is the life of another, and I will stand again in the windswept grasses and look through the eyes of the fox and take the air with the eagle and run in the track of the deer.

Being alone on the moors is scary; as the rain clouds settle in, it makes you realise your place in nature.

Invariably the failure of organized religions, by which they cut themselves off from mystery and therefore from sanctity, lies in the attempt to impose an absolute division between faith and doubt, to make belief perform as knowledge; when they forbid their prophets to go into the wilderness, they lose the possibility of renewal.

From cloud to sea to cloud, I climb The deer road through the leafless trees Under a wind that batters limb On limb, still roaring as it has Two nights and days, cold in slow spring. But ancient song in a wild throat Recalls itself and starts to sing In storm-cleared light...

A hunter, with a second hunter nearby, asked me what I was looking for up there. I said I liked his dog better than I liked him.

and listening to the jackals squabbling

wisdom of the outdoors, until

Is there any wilderness of sand in the deserts of Arabia, is there any prospect of desolation among the ruins of Palestine, which can rival the repelling effect on the eye, and the depressing influence on the mind, of an English country town in the first stage of its existence, and in the transition state of its prosperity?

Unleashed! Alone, watching the May moon above the trees . At nine o'clock the park closes. You must be out of the lake, dressed, in your cars and going: they change into their street clothes in the back seats and move out among the trees . The "great beast" all removed before the plunging night, the crickets' black wings and hylas wake .

The wagon wound and jolted between the slow and shifting yet constant walls from beyond and above which the wilderness watched them pass, less than inimical now and never to be inimical again since the buck still and forever leaped, the shaking gun-barrels coming constantly and forever steady at last, crashing, and still out of his instant of immortality the buck sprang, forever immortal

Adesso, affacciato alla finestra, sente soltanto gli immensi, interminabili insetti, respira il caldo, immobile, ricco odore maculato della terra, pensando a quanto, da giovane, da ragazzo, amava l'oscurità, a come la notte camminava oppure si sedeva fra gli alberi. Allora il terreno, la corteccia degli alberi, tutto diventava vero, ricco, selvaggio, evocava strani e minacciosi mezzi piaceri, mezzi terrori. Ne aveva paura. Lo spaventava; amava aver paura.

Only yesterday was a wilderness ordinary

final itch-footed destination, and at the same time scattering his ebullient seed in a hundred dusky bellies through a thousand miles of wilderness; innocent and gullible, without bowels for avarice or compassion or forethought either, changing the face of the earth: felling a tree which took two hundred years to grow, in order to extract from it a bear or a capful of wild honey;

He was known through all that country. He had no kin, no ties, and he antedated everyone; nobody knew how old he was—a tall thin man in a filthy frock coat and no shirt beneath it and a long, perfectly white beard reaching below his waist, who lived in a mud-daubed hut in the river bottom five or six miles from any road. He made and sold nostrums and charms, and it was said of him that ate not only frogs and snakes but bugs as well—anything that he could catch.

Everything out there was disturbingly interlaced with everything else. Waves were the playing field. They were the goal. They were the object of your deepest desire and adoration. At the same time, they were your adversary, your nemesis, even your mortal enemy. The surf was your refuge, your happy hiding place, but it was also a hostile wilderness—a dynamic, indifferent world.

There is nothing in it of course. Just a feeling. But you can feel as if you're not hunting, but - being hunted, as if something's behind you all the time in the jungle.

The boys were dancing. The pile was so rotten, and now so tinder-dry, that whole limbs yielded passionately to the yellow flames that poured upwards and shook a great beards of flame twenty feet in the air. For yards round the fire the heat was like a blow, and the breeze was a river of sparks. Trunks crumbled to a white dust.

He forgot his wounds, his hunger and thirst, and became fear; hopeless fear on flying feet, rushing through the forest toward the open beach.