Standing at the edge of a canyon, one feels alive yet unable to breach the separation between the vast wilderness and our smallness. We don't see what the eagle sees, we don't hear what the elk hears, we don't taste what the wolf tastes. They live in a parallel universe in which we humans interact with them in ways that create tragedies for both them and us.
This wilderness landscape is older and richer than we can know. The canyon at twilight radiates its warmth, but the canyon's dark expanse at night holds more of the moon. The canyon and eagle dance together. The canyon nurtures the elk's lineage—the canyon guards the meaning of the wolf's howl.
Wilderness exists to touch that instinctual place where the sky meets the canyon in your heart. It does something that sustains the human and nourishes the soul. Wilderness is not a thing or a place but a feeling available anytime you conjure it up. This feeling can be carried anywhere, in a city, in class, in church, at work, with friends, with family. Wilderness is a pointer, a beckoning, a summons it our true nature, our sky nature, our true nature, our mountains and rivers nature, our canyon nature. Wilderness is a call to our humanity. You have to let it in and let the wild permeate who you are.
