Quotes About Wilderness

Were there any places in this shunned landscape that bloomed with colour and life?

These were the cloud forests of the far wilderness of Cos, inaccessible and remote. Only rebels haunted the wild terrain, and over the years, they had become used to the rarefied air. Many of them had given birth to mystics.

I hate nature. I really do. Nature is composed entirely of sticks, dirt, fall-down places, biting and stinging things, and savageries too numerous to list. And I'm not the only one who feels this way. Man has been building cities since the year oughty-ought, just to get away from this stuff.

Does wilderness exist because we do not know everything, and if we did, would there be no wilderness? As we increase mastery of our world through the spread of technology, is there a corresponding loss of wilderness?

Romney Marsh remains one of the last great wildernesses of south-east England. Flat as a desert, and at times just as daunting, it is an odd, occasionally eerie wetland straddling the coastal borders of Kent and Sussex, rich in birds, local folklore and solitary medieval churches.

I usually find myself hiking in a place that not a lot of people go hiking, just trying to find some solitude. I like being out in the middle of nowhere. Not always, but it's a good place to go to just reflect and think, and it's something I really enjoy.

Often in normal life I'm just constricted to what I see, maybe, and hear. But when I climb and when I'm out in the wild, other senses come to me and Delicate Arch was a free solo climb, which means I didn't have any protection and often, when I put myself in these situations, it brings out this heightened awareness which I crave so much.

The most remote place I've been to was in Greenland. I remember setting out for a solo hike from a small cabin, itself several hours' boat ride from the nearest settlement.

Lust. It's not soft like the touch of a raindrop. It's not easy like floating aimlessly on the water. It's weighted, and heavy, a spark that catches on the forest of your body. A wildfire.

Wolves mated for life. Where was he? Where was the echo to her howl, her mate? Was there no other lone wolf, searching the hills for her?

All that I desire in life are three...A wilderness: A beach on the sun-drenched sea, A puff of opium, And thee.

To flee forever is beyond the capacity of most: at some point even a hunted animal will stop, exhausted, and awaits its fate, if only for a while.

Wild Life by Molly Gloss Where Bigfoot Walks: Crossing the Dark Divide by Robert Michael Pyle

The Wood knew I was here: even now its creatures were moving towards me, stealthy padding feet through the forest, walkers and wolves and worse things still. I suddenly was sure that there were things that never left the Wood at all, things so dreadful no one had ever seen them. And they were coming.

Fear and work weren't all bad, as companions went. They were both better than loneliness, and the deeper fears, the worse ones that I knew would come true: that I wouldn't see my mother and father for ten years, that I'd never live again in my own home, never run wild in the woods again, that whatever strange alchemy acted on the Dragon's girls would soon begin to take hold of me, and make me into someone I wouldn't recognize at the end of it.

She was as deep in the Wood's power as any person can be.

Not a hundred feet away the river roared over a cliff's-edge, and were weren't really leaves, even if I'd been careful to forget that.

No one lives in these regions of rock and sun. It is a lucky part of the world; to grow old without buildings and roadways, to dissolve quietly without feeling stunned.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

Mother Nature is the meanest of bitches, that's the sad truth.

Safety was one thing, but what he really wanted was to be electrified, to be wounded, to be cast into the wilderness, to be released, to be exalted, and most especially to be surrounded by the drowning noise and ebullience and casual presence of friends calling out his name, demanding his presence.

Nancy and Helen said good-by and paddled off upstream. The Angus River, a tributary of the Muskoka, was banked on either side with dense shrubbery, willow trees, and wild flowers. "We're almost to Benton," Nancy said. "The old inn should be just beyond the next bend.

She runs for the joy of it, because she can, her strides stretching to cover a dozen feet every time she leaps. Her mouth is open to taste the air, which is sharp with cold. The month turns, and the swelling moon paints the night sky silver, lighting up patches of snow scattered throughout the woods. Not yet full moon, a rare moment to be set free before her time, but the other half of her being has no reason to lock her away. She is alone, but she is free, and so she

We imbue deserts and the tundra with menace because nothing, or little, grows there.