The mountains are calling and I must go.
In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks.
I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.
Another glorious Sierra day in which one seems to be dissolved and absorbed and sent pulsing onward we know not where. Life seems neither long nor short, and we take no more heed to save time or make haste than do the trees and stars. This is true freedom, a good practical sort of immortality.
The power of imagination makes us infinite.
Between every two pines is a doorway to a new world.
Handle a book as a bee does a flower, extract its sweetness but do not damage it.
This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never dried all at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor is ever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal dawn and gloaming, on sea and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.
We are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us.
I am losing precious days. I am degenerating into a machine for making money. I am learning nothing in this trivial world of men. I must break away and get out into the mountains to learn the news.
This time it is real – all must die, and where could mountaineer find a more glorious death!
Most people are on the world, not in it.
Earth has no sorrow that earth can not heal.
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
Who wouldn't be a mountaineer! Up here all the world's prizes seem nothing.
Nothing truly wild is unclean.
One day's exposure to mountains is better than a cartload of books.
How glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains.
We all travel the Milky Way together, trees and men.
When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.