My own conviction on this score dates from the day I saw a wolf die. We were eating lunch on a high rimrock， at the foot of which a turbulent river elbowed its way. We saw what we thought was a doe fording thetorrent， her breast awash in white water. When she climbed the bank toward us and shook out her tail， we realized our error： it was a wolf. A half- dozen others， evidently grown pups， sprang from the willows and all joined in a welcoming mêlée of wagging tails and playful maulings. What was literally a pile of wolves writhed and tumbled in the center of an open flat at the foot of our rimrock.
In those days we had never heard of passing up a chance to kill a wolf. In a second we were pumping lead into the pack， but with more excitement than accuracy： how to aim a steep downhill shot is always confusing. When our rifles were empty， the old wolf was down， and a pup was dragging a leg into impassable slide—rocks.
We reached the old wolf in time to watch a fierce green fire dying in her eyes. I realized then， and have known ever since， that there was something new to me in those eyes–something known only to her and to the mountain. I was young then， and full of trigger-itch； I thought that because fewer wolves meant more deer， that no wolves would mean hunters’ paradise. But after seeing the green fire die， I sensed that neither the wolf nor the mountain agreed with such a view.
Since then I have lived to see state after state extirpate its wolves. I have watched the face of many a newly wolfless mountain， and seen the south- facing slopes wrinkle with a maze of new deer trails. I have seen every edible bush and seedling browsed， first to anaemic desuetude， and then to death. I have seen every edible tree defoliated to the height of a saddle horn. Such a mountain looks as if someone had given God a new pruning shears， and forbidden Him all other exercise. In the end the starved bones of the hoped- for deer herd， dead of its own too-much， bleach with the bones of the dead sage， or molder under the high-lined junipers.
I now suspect that just as a deer herd lives in mortal fear of its wolves， so does a mountain live in mortal fear of its deer. And perhaps with better cause， for while a buck pulled down by wolves can be replaced in two or three years， a range pulled down by too many deer may fail of replacement in as many decades.
So also with cows. The cowman who cleans his range of wolves does not realize that he is taking over the wolf ’s job of trimming the herd to fit the range. He has not learned to think like a mountain. Hence we have dustbowls， and rivers washing the future into the sea.
We all strive for safety， prosperity， comfort， long life， and dullness. The deer strives with his supple legs， the cowman with trap and poison， the statesman with pen， the most of us with machines， votes， and dollars， but it all comes to the same thing： peace in our time. A measure of success in this is all well enough， and perhaps is a requisite to objective thinking， but too much safety seems to yield only danger in the long run. Perhaps this is behind Thoreau’s dictum： In wildness is the salvation of the world. Perhaps this is the hidden meaning in the howl of the wolf， long known among mountains， but seldom perceived among men.
13
The Shores of the Cosmic Ocean
宇宙的边疆
It is not from space that I must seek my dignity， but from the government of my thought. I shall have no more if l possess worlds. By space the universe encompasses and swallows me up like an atom； by thought I comprehend the world.
—Blaise Pascal， Pensees
The known is finite， the unknown infinite； intellectually we stand on an islet in the midst of an illimitable ocean of inexplicability. Our business in every generation is to reclaim a little more land.
—T. H. Huxléy， 1887
The Cosmos is all that is or ever was or ever will be. Our feeblest contemplations of the Cosmos stir us—there is a tingling in the spine， a catch in the voice， a faint sensation， as if a distant memory， of falling from a height. We know we are approaching the greatest of mysteries.
The size and age of the Cosmos are beyond ordinary human understanding. Lost somewhere between immensity and eternity is our tiny planetary home. In a cosmic perspective， most human concerns seem insignificant， even petty. And yet our species is young and curious and brave and shows-much promise. In the last few millennia we have made the most astonishing and unexpected discoveries about the Cosmos and our place within it， explorations that are exhilarating to consider. They remind us that humans have evolved to wonder， that understanding is a joy， that knowledge is prerequisite to survival. I believe our future dependson how well we know this Cosmos in which we float like a mote of dust in the morning sky.
Those explorations required skepticism and imagination both. Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were. But without it， we go nowhere. Skepticism enables us to distinguish fancy from fact， to test our speculations. The Cosmos is rich beyond measurein elegant facts， in exquisite interrelationships， in the subtle machinery of awe. The surface of the Earth is the shore of the cosmic ocean. From it we have learned most of what we know. Recently， we have waded a little out to sea， enough to dampen our toes or， at most， wet our ankles. The water seems inviting. The ocean calls. Some part of our being knows this is from where we came. We long to return. These aspirations are not， I think， irreverent， although they may trouble whatever gods may be.