What do you think?
Rate this book
Walking the High Ridge: Life as a Field Trip
“Teaches us how to be the best kind of human beings.” — ECLECTICA As a boy in Colorado, Robert Michael Pyle fell in love with alpine heights and the butterflies that float above the tree line. This early passion sparked a career in conservation that took Pyle across the globe—until he realized that he was no longer as intimate with the natural world that first spurred him to action. Walking the High Ridge is a journey through Pyle’s “unruly pack of interests”—biology, nature conservation, and literature—to his decision finally to choose the life that would give free reign to his scientific and creative impulses and keep him “as much as possible, out of doors.”
- GenresNatureNonfiction
172 pages, Paperback
First published August 22, 2000
1 person is currently reading
64 people want to read
About the author
Robert Michael Pyle
47 books69 followersRobert Michael Pyle is a lepidopterist and a professional writer who has published twelve books and hundreds of papers, essays, stories and poems. He has a Ph.D. from the School of Forestry and Environmental Studies at Yale University. He founded the Xerces Society for Invertebrate Conservation in 1974. His acclaimed 1987 book Wintergreen describing the devastation caused by unrestrained logging in Washington's Willapa Hills near his adopted home was the winner of the 1987 John Burroughs Medal for Distinguished Nature Writing. His 1995 book Where Bigfoot Walks: Crossing the Dark Divide was the subject of a Guggenheim Fellowship.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews
March 26, 2008
This book is an account of the author's life as butterfly enthusiast, entomologist, conservationist and writer. I liked it because it intertwines two of my passions-- nature/the outdoors and theology/philosophy. Although the author did spend considerable time walking high alpine ridges to observe butterflies, the book's title is probably more closely related to the opening quote from Vladimir Nabakov: "Does there not exist a high ridge where the mountainside of 'scientific' knowledge joins the opposite slope of 'artistic' imagination?"
In college, Robert Michael Pyle took up studies of zoology but instead of the deep immersion in nature that he had expected he was stifled by the lab-oriented, quantitative science requirements. He "flunked chemistry twice in favor of bird-watching" and instead pursued a self-styled program that he called "Nature Perception and Protection." Through graduate studies, research fellowships and a variety of jobs he seemed to be searching to discover his calling, some way that his "unruly pack of interests [nature, conservation, writing] might be able to coalesce in some satisfying and useful form." He founded the Xerces Society, which became an international organization for the conservation of invertebrates and their habitats, named after a butterfly species that became extinct as a result of the expansion of San Francisco in the 1940's. He worked for the government of Papua New Guinea to evaluate a plan to conserve giant birdwing butterflies through habitat protection and a program of butterfly farming that would aid local economies. He turned down opportunities to advance into powerful positions in international conservation because he had observed so many in those positions become disconnected from the love of nature that had first led them there. He chose instead the life of a writer.
One of Pyle's themes in writing is "the love of damaged lands" and "how best to honor what is left", whether he is writing about clear-cut forests in the northwestern United States(Wintergreen) or his beloved High Line Canal in the suburbs of Denver where he grew up (The Thunder Tree). He propounds a principle that he calls "The Extinction of Experience", which he describes as "a cycle of disaffection and loss of hitherto common species, events and flavors of sensation in our own immediate surrounds; this loss leads to ignorance of variety and nuance, thence to alienation, apathy, an absence of caring, and ultimately to further extinction." Although the High Line Canal was no pristine wilderness, its weedy banks were nonetheless home to many common butterflies that fed Pyle's early fascination with nature. As he watched these butterflies and their habitat disappear with the encroachment of Denver's suburbs he wondered "What is the extinction of the condor, to a child who has never known a wren?" Thus came his passion for preserving local, natural habitats within suburbs and cities.
Another theme of his writing and thinking is "the nature of belief, and how we go about both questioning and establishing what we believe in." Through his field observations he overturned a widely held belief about Monarch butterfly migration that had become established in the scientific community through repetition, hearsay, assumption and limited data. He also investigated the nature of people's belief in Big Foot, a subject on which his mind remains open, having found enough evidence to keep him from disbelieving, but not enough evidence to cause him to believe (making him an agnostic on this subject?). In a poignant aside he notes "If we come to a time when the forests are so tamed that we can no longer even imagine the possible presence of unknown creatures, ... then we will have lost something very profound indeed."
Pyle makes it clear that when he uses the word "belief" he is not talking about faith, or about something one would choose to believe to make one's self feel better. If he says he believes something, he wants it to be based on his best state of knowledge at the time. He describes his goal of open-mindedness this way: "An open mind neither rejects nor limits itself to the scientific method but considers it among the other tools for palping the universe. It doubts everything and accepts everyone. It is completely skeptical and wholly receptive, seldom wishy-washy but often unsettled. The open mind is not afraid to be made up, then, like a bed, to be thrashed, stripped and made afresh all over again. ... What I want is a state of brain aloof from arrogant dismissiveness, free from superstition, and rich in question."
Pyle does speak of faith, saying that what he understands to be faith arose for him from nature. Not that the beauty and elegance of nature caused him to believe that there must be a God that created it all. No, the name he gave to his faith (in junior high school) was "naturo-pantheistic-syncretism."
Later, his conservative Christian sister-in-law, hit the nail on the head (I think) when she told him "You know what we Christians really can't abide about evolution? It's that evolution requires the extinction of the individual personality." I wondered what Pyle would do with this statement. He referred back to an essay he had written earlier in life on mechanism and vitalism in which he argued for something unknowable in life beyond mechanics. Yet, he now regards that essay, earnest as it was, as having grown out of his bad attitude toward chemistry and also the recent and early death of his mother. He now accepts that individuals do not transcend death, and he takes comfort in the fact that our materials carry on in the form of ferns, waterbears and rocks. At death we relinquish our souls and our bodies (he does not distinguish between the two) to the earth.
He is not antagonistic toward religion or its practitioners (except when its focus on the after-life leads people to treat this world as expendable, as mere fodder for exploitation). He acknowledges and approves of the recent trend in many faiths to emphasize our responsibility for "the Creation" (quotation marks his). Yet his own statement of belief is "I have come to value the physical as if it was all there is, and to conclude that it probably is. Since I do not find the physical wanting, I do not want for the metaphysical. The very notion of the supernatural implies a presumption of essential poverty on the part of the natural that I find distasteful. ... This then, I believe: Heaven is here, angels are butterflies and bats, and the great beyond is the holy compost pile of the ages."
As I ponder the differences between Pyle's worldview and mine, I note that I too believe that heaven (and hell) are here and now, although I acknowledge that they may also be more than that. I glory in the natural, physical world, as Pyle does, and yet I also long for something more, something personal, something that gives meaning to the physical world. I don't find the physical world wanting, precisely because of my belief that it is the purposeful and loving creation of a personal being, a being who desires relationship with me and with all of the creation. Or perhaps I do find the physical world wanting. As much as I appreciate the biodegradability and renewability of nature, I do find myself longing for a world without death, even though I cannot imagine what that would be like. Even Pyle acknowledges longing for this earlier in his life. He just concluded that that longing was unrealistic and found a way to accept death and decay.
Have I done the same? My belief in an afterlife, while still present, is not as important to me (at least right now, while death is far from my mind) as my belief in a God who gives meaning to my life and to all of creation, and my hope in a God who can bring good out of evil and can transform me and others into beings ever more capable of love. And yet, i still do want that afterlife, if only to see how it all turns out, to see the wonders that God will create in the future.
As I write this, I can see that most of the beliefs that I have that Pyle does not share are those beliefs that I choose to believe because I want to believe them--that there is meaning and purpose to the universe and to my life, that there is a source of love and strength that can transform me in ways that I am unable to transform myself. Or, maybe that's not the only reason that I believe them. Where did this desire to be transformed into a more loving person come from? It wasn't always there. I distinctly remember wondering, years ago, how anyone could be excited about serving others. Yes, it was something we ought to do, but why pretend to like doing it? The change came with maturity, and from meeting people who acted with a force of love that I didn't have within me, and I decided "I want that." Isn't it reasonable to believe that that desire was planted in me by a being who also desires me and the rest of the world to be transformed in love? And wouldn't it be a profound tragedy if our view of the spiritual world becomes so fixed and limited and tied to the physical that we can no longer imagine the existence of an unknown being who is complete Love?
In college, Robert Michael Pyle took up studies of zoology but instead of the deep immersion in nature that he had expected he was stifled by the lab-oriented, quantitative science requirements. He "flunked chemistry twice in favor of bird-watching" and instead pursued a self-styled program that he called "Nature Perception and Protection." Through graduate studies, research fellowships and a variety of jobs he seemed to be searching to discover his calling, some way that his "unruly pack of interests [nature, conservation, writing] might be able to coalesce in some satisfying and useful form." He founded the Xerces Society, which became an international organization for the conservation of invertebrates and their habitats, named after a butterfly species that became extinct as a result of the expansion of San Francisco in the 1940's. He worked for the government of Papua New Guinea to evaluate a plan to conserve giant birdwing butterflies through habitat protection and a program of butterfly farming that would aid local economies. He turned down opportunities to advance into powerful positions in international conservation because he had observed so many in those positions become disconnected from the love of nature that had first led them there. He chose instead the life of a writer.
One of Pyle's themes in writing is "the love of damaged lands" and "how best to honor what is left", whether he is writing about clear-cut forests in the northwestern United States(Wintergreen) or his beloved High Line Canal in the suburbs of Denver where he grew up (The Thunder Tree). He propounds a principle that he calls "The Extinction of Experience", which he describes as "a cycle of disaffection and loss of hitherto common species, events and flavors of sensation in our own immediate surrounds; this loss leads to ignorance of variety and nuance, thence to alienation, apathy, an absence of caring, and ultimately to further extinction." Although the High Line Canal was no pristine wilderness, its weedy banks were nonetheless home to many common butterflies that fed Pyle's early fascination with nature. As he watched these butterflies and their habitat disappear with the encroachment of Denver's suburbs he wondered "What is the extinction of the condor, to a child who has never known a wren?" Thus came his passion for preserving local, natural habitats within suburbs and cities.
Another theme of his writing and thinking is "the nature of belief, and how we go about both questioning and establishing what we believe in." Through his field observations he overturned a widely held belief about Monarch butterfly migration that had become established in the scientific community through repetition, hearsay, assumption and limited data. He also investigated the nature of people's belief in Big Foot, a subject on which his mind remains open, having found enough evidence to keep him from disbelieving, but not enough evidence to cause him to believe (making him an agnostic on this subject?). In a poignant aside he notes "If we come to a time when the forests are so tamed that we can no longer even imagine the possible presence of unknown creatures, ... then we will have lost something very profound indeed."
Pyle makes it clear that when he uses the word "belief" he is not talking about faith, or about something one would choose to believe to make one's self feel better. If he says he believes something, he wants it to be based on his best state of knowledge at the time. He describes his goal of open-mindedness this way: "An open mind neither rejects nor limits itself to the scientific method but considers it among the other tools for palping the universe. It doubts everything and accepts everyone. It is completely skeptical and wholly receptive, seldom wishy-washy but often unsettled. The open mind is not afraid to be made up, then, like a bed, to be thrashed, stripped and made afresh all over again. ... What I want is a state of brain aloof from arrogant dismissiveness, free from superstition, and rich in question."
Pyle does speak of faith, saying that what he understands to be faith arose for him from nature. Not that the beauty and elegance of nature caused him to believe that there must be a God that created it all. No, the name he gave to his faith (in junior high school) was "naturo-pantheistic-syncretism."
Later, his conservative Christian sister-in-law, hit the nail on the head (I think) when she told him "You know what we Christians really can't abide about evolution? It's that evolution requires the extinction of the individual personality." I wondered what Pyle would do with this statement. He referred back to an essay he had written earlier in life on mechanism and vitalism in which he argued for something unknowable in life beyond mechanics. Yet, he now regards that essay, earnest as it was, as having grown out of his bad attitude toward chemistry and also the recent and early death of his mother. He now accepts that individuals do not transcend death, and he takes comfort in the fact that our materials carry on in the form of ferns, waterbears and rocks. At death we relinquish our souls and our bodies (he does not distinguish between the two) to the earth.
He is not antagonistic toward religion or its practitioners (except when its focus on the after-life leads people to treat this world as expendable, as mere fodder for exploitation). He acknowledges and approves of the recent trend in many faiths to emphasize our responsibility for "the Creation" (quotation marks his). Yet his own statement of belief is "I have come to value the physical as if it was all there is, and to conclude that it probably is. Since I do not find the physical wanting, I do not want for the metaphysical. The very notion of the supernatural implies a presumption of essential poverty on the part of the natural that I find distasteful. ... This then, I believe: Heaven is here, angels are butterflies and bats, and the great beyond is the holy compost pile of the ages."
As I ponder the differences between Pyle's worldview and mine, I note that I too believe that heaven (and hell) are here and now, although I acknowledge that they may also be more than that. I glory in the natural, physical world, as Pyle does, and yet I also long for something more, something personal, something that gives meaning to the physical world. I don't find the physical world wanting, precisely because of my belief that it is the purposeful and loving creation of a personal being, a being who desires relationship with me and with all of the creation. Or perhaps I do find the physical world wanting. As much as I appreciate the biodegradability and renewability of nature, I do find myself longing for a world without death, even though I cannot imagine what that would be like. Even Pyle acknowledges longing for this earlier in his life. He just concluded that that longing was unrealistic and found a way to accept death and decay.
Have I done the same? My belief in an afterlife, while still present, is not as important to me (at least right now, while death is far from my mind) as my belief in a God who gives meaning to my life and to all of creation, and my hope in a God who can bring good out of evil and can transform me and others into beings ever more capable of love. And yet, i still do want that afterlife, if only to see how it all turns out, to see the wonders that God will create in the future.
As I write this, I can see that most of the beliefs that I have that Pyle does not share are those beliefs that I choose to believe because I want to believe them--that there is meaning and purpose to the universe and to my life, that there is a source of love and strength that can transform me in ways that I am unable to transform myself. Or, maybe that's not the only reason that I believe them. Where did this desire to be transformed into a more loving person come from? It wasn't always there. I distinctly remember wondering, years ago, how anyone could be excited about serving others. Yes, it was something we ought to do, but why pretend to like doing it? The change came with maturity, and from meeting people who acted with a force of love that I didn't have within me, and I decided "I want that." Isn't it reasonable to believe that that desire was planted in me by a being who also desires me and the rest of the world to be transformed in love? And wouldn't it be a profound tragedy if our view of the spiritual world becomes so fixed and limited and tied to the physical that we can no longer imagine the existence of an unknown being who is complete Love?
August 25, 2020
Having read and loved Pyle's Wintergreen, I enjoyed reading this memoir, not an autobiography, but memories of his life and his books. A lepidopterist and conservationist, Pyle writes beautifully, with a wide vocabulary and the ability to connect science to art. The first page captivated me with his passion for one specific butterfly, the Erebia magdalena. Several pages are devoted to a justification, or defense, of spending his life as a nature writer. Everything he writes encourages all of us to spend more time outdoors marveling at the beauty of nature.
April 16, 2020
Excellent. So excellent.
November 7, 2025
A proto lyrical essay that serves to introduce the world to Robert Michael Pyle in the best way possible: through his writing, and writing about him.
December 17, 2012
When I read, I always read the forwards, epilogues, bibliographies and acknowledgments. I love Pyle's work because he is both poet and scientist, who writes literature. He is also an atheist for very intelligent reasons. This book is his "credo" -or central observations about life and nature. It also includes a biographical sketch written by his friend and colleague, Scott Slovic. Then in the acknowledgments I find that Pyle meets with a Writer's Group in Southwestern Washington, which includes John Indermark. I have read many of Indermark's books through Upper Room ministries (which dot my bookshelves) and continue to use them regularly for Bible Studies I teach. I find this interface to be interesting, and especially to me. Like both Pyle and Indermark, I do aspire to be curious and open-minded.
June 15, 2007
One of my favorites.
Currently reading
June 24, 2008Learning to write creatively about my own love of nature and the things I learn about life as I stroll the woods, beaches and creeksides of WA.
July 18, 2016
A lovely memoir which explores the roots of Pyle's nature writing.
Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews