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In his world lately, the life of a wolf, or a hawk, might be worth more than the life of a man.
“How can you guys feel cooped up out here?” she said with a sweep of her arm. “Do you really think this is the middle of nowhere? This is the middle of everything.”
he often found out that they had a bucket list of sights to tick off and had only eight days of vacation and were understandably in a hurry. Productivity over time. If that’s what fifty weeks a year demanded, it made perfect sense that one would approach the remaining two in the same way.
there was another predator above the wolves, and this species walked on two legs, and one of the two-leggeds, it seemed, was more savage and ruthless than the rest.
Joy. Unadulterated joy. Joy undulled by fear or any anticipation of collapse. Joy sufficient to itself and at home in the world, and so entwined with the beauty of the spot and the warming breeze and the sounds of water it was almost too wonderful to bear.
A corner of the Rocky Mountains where the natural laws were as different from those in the rest of the country as a snow globe was from an actual winter village.
“if the earth were a meritocracy and we were graded on how much each species contributed to the well-being of the whole, we’d be fucked. God would blow his whistle at all the people and yell, Everybody out of the pool! It’s why Paul Watson, the Sea Shepherd captain, once said that the life of a worm is worth more than the life of a man. Sounds nuts, but it’s something to think about.”
Had the moose truly charged and made contact, she would probably have been put down. The calf, too, because she was still nursing. How many innocent lives had been lost in service to Instagram?
