A few months ago, beginning work on a book of my own inspired by time in wilderness, I made a list of nature writers whose work I wanted to study. Close to the top of that list was the work of Sigurd Olson, whose books included The Singing Wilderness (his most popular book) and Reflections From The North Country (my personal favorite).
Olson’s books possess two qualities difficult to achieve in wilderness writing – a sense of the peace and beauty to be found in wild places, and a passionate description of the potential of wilderness to shape and change the human soul. He deals at length with the changes in rhythm experienced by the wilderness traveler as he or she leaves civilization behind and gradually adapts to the natural world.
Below I’ve included some of my favorite Olson quotes on wilderness, as well as excerpts from the biography that David Backes wrote of his life, A Wilderness Within, The Life of Sigurd F. Olson.
If I knew all there is to know about a golden arctic poppy growing on a rocky ledge in the Far North, I would know the whole story of evolution and creation.
- Sigurd F. Olson
At times on quiet waters one does not speak aloud but only in whispers, for then all noise is sacrilege.
- Sigurd F. Olson
pg. 24
Writing at its best must come from deep within, for often that is where truth and originality lie; none comes entirely from the upper tenth of gray matter. It is when one reaches down into the dark realms of the past that great ideas surge forth.
pg. 28
I know now as men accept the time clock of the wilderness, their lives become entirely different. It is one of the great compensations of primitive experience, and when one finally reaches the point where days are governed by daylight and dark, rather than by schedules, where one eats if hungry and sleeps when tired, and becomes completely immersed in the ancient rhythms, then one begins to live.
pg. 33
...while I love to have companions with me, I discovered long ago what psychologists call "creative silence": the impact of solitude on the mind, the awakening of ideas and thoughts normally hidden when one is with others, the emergence of concepts often lost owing to interruptions and responsibilities. During such times, one drinks from the deep wells of the past.
pg. 46
We often think of native tribes as being shiftless and without ambition, superstitious and ignorant. This may be true according to our point of view, but I know them well enough to realize what seems of value to us is often of no value to them. They lived with the earth and in harmony with its creatures, were part of the great silences, with no tension or hurry, perhaps cruel at times, but they learned to share and take care of each other. There was no squalor until we showed them the meaning of it. There was peace and beauty as well as suffering, starvation and death, but these were inevitable and not to be feared.
pg. 49
The imagination of man brings him close to the doorway of the infinite, which encompasses all. I often think of early man with his first nebulous dream as he stood at the very threshold of his rise, stirred by vague and frightening fears of the unknown.
Today he is torn by other fears, and has built around himself a civilization that cannot understand or evaluate his spiritual needs. No matter how far science has gone and will go in its exploration of the universe and of life and its processes, there are certain things it cannot do. One is to bring understanding and peace to a confused and troubled soul.
pg. 55
I know a man is never so much himself as when he is actually part of a dream, never so lost as when it disappears and there is nothing to look forward to.
pg. 84
John Galsworthy said: "It is the contemplation of beautiful visions which slowly, generation by generation, has lifted man to his present state. Nothing in the world but the love of beauty in its broadest sense stands between man and the full and reckless exercise of his competitive greed."
pg. 93
Simplicity in all things is the secret of the wilderness and one of its most valuable lessons. It is what we leave behind that is important. I think the matter of simplicity goes further than just food, equipment, and unnecessary gadgets; it goes into the matter of thoughts and objectives as well. When in the wilds, we must not carry our problems with us or the joy is lost. Never indulge in arguments or bitter recriminations; never criticize, but be of good cheer....Thoreau, I know, would have agreed...I can imagine him moving around the old Wilderness Outfitters warehouse with his strange and almost enigmatic smile, patting the guides on the shoulder and whispering, "Simplify—simplify—simplify."
pg. 95
You could see it in the eyes of the people, that indomitable courage which meant they would rather die than submit. You find it in all who have lived with danger, that quality which makes a people unconquerable.
pg. 103
Wilderness should be sacred and quiet, just as the Indians felt in designating certain places as spirit lands where no one talked. I have written about the Kawashaway River country of "no place between," where the Indians always traveled quietly and spoke only in whispers....two of the greatest values of wilderness travel, solitude and silence.
pg. 106
My two old canoes are works of art embodying the feeling of all canoemen for rivers and lakes and the wild country they were built to traverse. They were made in the old tradition when there was time and love of the work itself.
pg. 112
Henry Beston, Outermost House: "Wholeness is being in tune with the wind, sand and stars."
pg. 113
I shall never forget the picture of him saying his prayers on a bare ledge just beyond the cabin, looking toward the west. He went out each evening alone after supper, and I can see his black silhouette kneeling there. If ever a man exuded a sense of wholeness, it was he. He knelt for a long time, part of the North he had become, of many expeditions by canoe, snowshoe, and dog team, of the bitter cold and near starvation, but also of the serenity that comes when one knows he has given all and asked for nothing. When he returned to the cabin, he brought with him the calm he had known, a sense of peace. We talked for a while before the fireplace and then he was ready for bed. It was always the same; it never varied and I did not disturb him. It would have been a sacrilege.
pg. 114
Serenity comes from wholeness, and one finds it in strange places. Once in a large city, while I was riding a subway, a woman took a seat just opposite mine. She was neither young nor old, but for some reason the profile of her face struck me, and it was not until she turned and smiled briefly that I saw the serenity in her eyes. I wanted to talk to her but did not dare, and although this happened many years ago, I have never forgotten the look on her countenance. She got off shortly and I watched her go with regret, but her serenity left itself with me. What gave her a sense of peace and wholeness I shall never know.
pg. 127
The Brothers Karamazov: Love all the earth, every ray of God's light, every grain of sand or blade of grass, every living thing. If you love the earth enough, you will know the divine mystery.
pg. 149
Life in the wilderness, especially when one is alone, is a continual contemplation and communion with God and Spirit regarding eternal values. One does not have to assume any particular stance, invoke incantations, repeat over and over again words such as "Oom," chant, or sing. To me these are merely hypnotic devices used to bring the mind into focus and into the realm of silence by those who do not have the privilege of living in situations where peace is all about them. There is no doubt of the efficacy of such ways of preparation or they would not be followed by hundreds of thousands, but when quiet is all around, with no sounds but natural ones--bird songs, wind, washing of waters against shores--the stage is always set for meditation and reflection, whatever one may chose to call it. Man may not be conscious of contemplation or seeking wisdom, for often no revelations come. Normal and unplanned contemplation comes as softly as the falling rain or the first snows in late fall when the entire world is waiting. While no great answers may come at these times, they do infiltrate occasionally and unobtrusively into one's consciousness, but usually there is simply a sense of peace, removal, and a happiness beyond understanding.
pg. 158
Herman DeCosta was a Buddhist, the first I had known, who became a close friend of mine. Writer, philosopher, and teacher, we made many trips together and it was through him I learned what Buddhism meant. Though I had read about its meanings, it was different living with someone who actually practiced the faith. Once I asked him to tell what its basic tenets were, and he replied, "Humbleness before God and nature, selflessness and tolerance in a world of bigotry and greed, simplicity in one of complexity."
pg. 164
...the eternal element is the soul and spirit of man, a non-material power of reason and logic that dominates the direction of the cosmos and the world we know.
pg. 166
Spinoza: The greatest good of the mind is the knowledge of God.
The New Testament: God is love and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God."
pg. 167
No naturalist, theologian, or philosopher can tolerate a statement that infers we are still only matter, that there is no logic, reason, or power behind the miracles we have discovered in a boundless universe.
pg. 171
Juan Ramon Jimeniz, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1956 said: "When a man can live tranquilly in the out-of-doors without fear of anything on earth or in space, not because he is a savage, but because he is thoroughly civilized, he has arrived through himself at the ultimate, that is to say the primal, having rid himself of all that is useless and unserviceable. This return to the primal is the ultimate to which a man can attain; it can make him complete master of himself, absolute friend to others, a poet without needing to write or without an academy."
pg. 172
With our vast knowledge we are hounded by doubt. Just the fact that the smallest structures of matter with their neutrons and protons move with the same precision and order as the galaxies, that solar systems are dying and being born again, makes us wonder and question the purpose of all we have learned. We also know there are certain things that cannot be measured scientifically, secrets that defy rational deduction, with no answer to the concepts of love, imagination, or the flowering of man's mind.
Wilderness Within, The Life of Sigurd F. Olson by David Backes
As I read David Backes biography of Sigurd Olson, I was struck by the decades he spent wanting to be a full-time writer, but instead kept plugging away at his job as the dean of a small college in Ely, Minnesota. He developed ulcers, depression and other stress-related health problems. He knew what he wanted to write about – humanity’s spiritual roots in wilderness, and the beauty and peace he found there, whether hunting or fishing, snowshoeing, cross country skiing or canoeing. He made sporadic efforts to sell that work, but met with almost no success. The agents and editors he showed his work to encouraged him to focus on fiction. There was no market for the kind of sentimental essays he wanted to write, they said. He tried fiction but it was not his passion and he was dismal at it. He did sell many hunting and fishing stories to magazines like Sports Afield but they didn’t pay well and after writing the first few stories the subject matter bored him.
It wasn’t until he was fifty seven that The Singing Wilderness, his first book of essays was published. It was successful, and he wrote eight more books. From what I know about John Graves’ history (click here), his experience was somewhat similar although a better case can be made that Graves’ work needed the decades between his first efforts and Goodbye to a River to mature. In the end, in my opinion, Graves work was superior. Nevertheless, Olson’s work, especially his meditations on the beauty and peace he found in wilderness, are worthwhile and inspiring.
Much of Olson’s lack of success can be attributed to self-doubt. He placed too much credence on the opinions of editors and others supposedly knowledgeable about his readership. Their frame of reference is what has sold recently. So the challenge is faith in one’s dreams, one’s vision. That takes one hell of a lot of courage. We are social animals. That’s how we have survived. We crave recognition, applause. Few of us are willing to persist in the face of others negative reaction to our work, especially if it deals with our most closely held beliefs.
I’ve learned this the hard way. I remember eating dinner twenty years ago with two relatives of my then wife. I described my dream, books inspired by my love of wilderness. Books of my writings and my photographs of wild places, which has since evolved into combining my writing with my watercolor art. In the ensuing twenty years I don’t seem to have embraced that project with my heart and soul, until just recently.
Wilderness Within, The Life of Sigurd F. Olson by David Backes.
pg. 75
…when Harper’s and Atlantic Monthly both rejected his winter’s output, a fictional story about loggers, he was more than unhappy. “I feel that my writing is more or less an illusion,” he wrote on April 2, “that there is no use in my going on and that I might as well give it up.”
pg. 86
What has kept me in the woods all these years is the love of beauty. If I was watching a beaver it was not the beaver and its habits as much as it was the light on the pool, the symmetry of the dam. If I was trailing a deer, it was not so much the habits of the deer as it was the vistas I gained along the ridges and through the trees. If it was ducks, it was more than anything else the view of a flock against the sunset or dawn in the rice rather than the birds themselves. In other words it was the scene as a whole which drew me and that I mistook for a keen interest in natural history for lack of a better explanation.
pg. 95
Only one who has experienced what I have, the longing for creation, can understand how terrible it is to find oneself inadequate.
pg. 115
“It is quite hopeless to try and do what Thoreau did, quite hopeless to try and do what Burroughs did,” he wrote in his journal. “I have not got it within me – I have the feelings perhaps but not the ability to put them down. All I can write about is natural history – the wolf situation, the duck situation, the habits of the deer, the habits of the beaver, semi scientific stuff…. Think of the terrible mistake of thinking that I might make a living writing.”
pg. 142
In January 1938, after Collier’s had rejected an essay, he wrote of his fear:
I know my dream, know what I want to do, but it will die and I will continue doing the thing that is easy, live comfortably and after a time give up entirely. Then the ghost of what once was me, the bright flame of the personality that was Sig Olson – adventurer, woodsman, explorer, author, lecturer, idealist, man of the wilderness – will stroll through my rooms as a ghost, looking disdainfully at the comforts I have gained. Then when I am alone and it reproaches me, I will know the meaning of the words, “He sold his birthright for a mess of pottage,” for that is exactly what I have done. That is exactly what I have done. That is exactly what all me do who give up their dreams. A man who loses his dream is old, one who has it is perennially young, I see it now as I have always seen it, but now it is a stark reality.
pg. 242
This song of the waters is audible to every ear, but there is other music in these hills…a vast pulsing harmony – its score inscribed on a thousand hills, its notes the lives and deaths of plants and animals, its rhythms spanning the seconds and the centuries.
- Aldo Leopold, from the essay “Song of the Galivan,”
from the book A Sand County Almanac.
pg. 252
The movement of a canoe is like a reed in the wind. Silence is a part of it, and the sounds of lapping water, bird songs, and wind in the trees. It is part of the medium through which it floats, the sky, the water, the shores. (from Sigurd Olson’s The Singing Wilderness)
pg. 253
I once climbed a great ridge called Robinson Peak to watch the sunset and to get a view of the lakes and rivers below, the rugged hills and valleys of the Quetico-Superior. When I reached the bald knob of the peak the sun was just above the horizon, a flaming ball ready to drop into the dusk below. Far beneath me on a point of pines reaching into the lake was the white inverted V of my tent. It looked very tiny down there where it was almost night.
As I watched and listened, I became conscious of the slow, steady hum of millions of insects and through it the calling of the whitethroats and the violin notes of the hermit thrushes. But it all seemed very vague from that height and very far away, and gradually the merged one with another, blending in a great enveloping softness of sound no louder, it seemed, than my breathing.
The sun was trembling now on the edge of the ridge. It was alive, almost fluid and pulsating, and as I watched it sink I thought that I could feel the earth turning from it, actually feel its rotation. Over all was the silence of the wilderness, that sense of oneness which comes only when there are no distracting sights or sounds, when we listen with inward ears and see with inward eyes, when we feel and are aware with our entire beings rather than our senses. I thought as I sat there of the ancient admonition, “Be still and know that I am God,” and knew that without stillness there can be no knowing, without divorcement from outside influences man cannot know what spirit means.
- from The Singing Wilderness
pg. 309
Wilderness is more than lakes, rivers, and timber along the shores, more than fishing or just camping. It is the sense of the primeval, of space, solitude, silence and the eternal mystery.
- Sigurd Olson from an article he wrote for
Naturalist magazine.
