“In our best times everything turns into religion, all the world seems a church and the mountains altars.”

Writing is like the life of a glacier; one eternal grind.

Yet how hard most people work for mere dust and ashes and care, taking no thought of growing in knowledge and grace, never having time to get in sight of their own ignorance.

Everything in Nature called destruction must be creation-a change from beauty to beauty.

Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity

I am learning to live close to the lives of my friends without ever seeing them. No miles of any measurement can separate your soul from mine.

Every hidden cell is throbbing with music and life, every fiber thrilling like harp strings.

The rivers flow not past, but through us, thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing.

Going to the woods is going home.

Earth has no sorrow that earth can not heal.

Most people who travel look only at what they are directed to look at. Great is the power of the guidebook maker, however ignorant.

There is a love of wild nature in everybody, an ancient mother-love showing itself whether recognized or no, and however covered by cares and duties.

Mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not ‘hike’ through them.

Wildness is a necessity.

What a psalm the storm was singing, and how fresh the smell of the washed earth and leaves, and how sweet the still small voices of the storm!

How narrow we selfish conceited creatures are in our sympathies! How blind to the rights of all the rest of creation!

Every sight and sound inspiring, leading one far out of himself, yet feeding and building up his individuality.