‘We are knights of a new, or rather old, order- not riders or drivers, not bikers or motorists, but walkers, a still more ancient and honorable class I trust. The chivalric and heroic spirit which once belonged to the rider seems now to reside in- or perchance to have subsided into, the Walker- not the knight but the walker errant. He is a sort of fourth estate-outside of church and state and people.” A quote I adapted from Henry David Thoreau’s essay titled ‘Walking’.
When I would re-create myself, I seek the darkest wood, the thickest and most interminable and to the citizen, most dismal, swamp. I enter as a sacred place, a Sanctum sanctorum. There is the strength, the marrow, of Nature.
In short, all good things are wild and free. There is something in a strain of music, whether produced by an instrument or by the human voice—take the sound of a bugle in a summer night, for instance—which by its wildness, to speak without satire, reminds me of the cries emitted by wild beasts in their native forests. It is so much of their wildness as I can understand. Give me for my friends and neighbors wild men, not tame ones. The wildness of the savage is but a faint symbol of the awful verity with which good men and lovers meet.