100 Books Like The Promise of Wilderness

To read Trace is to go on a mesmerizing journey with the wisest of guides. Savoy searches for American identities, and her own multifaceted ones, in the history and memory of landscapes across the continent. Every turn reveals tragic histories and surprising connections and omissions with the most beautiful language. Savoy excavates the palimpsest of stories embedded in landscapes’ histories in a helpful reminder that “nature” is always entangled with the richness and complexity of human life. With each careful word, Savoy deepened my appreciation for how landscape absorbs and reflects its history—and my admiration for her unbelievable gifts as a writer. Trace is one of those books you can read each year and your respect for it grows and the insights from it enlarge your life every time.

Published 50 years after Desert Solitaire, seventh-generation Utah resident Amy Irvine talks about her respect for Abbey’s impact on her life and writing, while also not holding back on lambasting Abbey for his behavior and hypocrisy. Irvine told Orion magazine, “My goal was not to take Abbey down, but rather to make space for other voices and relationships to the natural world.” While Abbey might be the context for the book, Irvine goes on to deliver a fascinating exploration into her own take on the wonders of wilderness. She can be as hard on herself as she is on Abbey. This book is a great contemporary look at a key question for those of us who explore the wilds: How do we keep from loving it to death? 

Rarely has a collection of essays inspired and perplexed me as much as this one. One chapter argues one thing; the next argues its near-opposite. And both are persuasive! After Preservation is designed to raise fundamental questions about nature, wilderness, and the Anthropocene without providing definitive answers. I didn’t close the book with answers, but I did close it knowing more, thinking harder, and questioning what I believed. If we are meant to save nature—or if we are merely meant to understand why that’s a fraught concept—we’ll need to grapple with ideas and practicalities like these authors do. 

I first read A Sand County Almanac in college, and it inspired me to think deeply about nature. In fact, it helped inspire my career. Aldo Leopold wrestled with our obligations to wild creatures and places arguably more seriously than any contemporary. This is the sort of book where you can open a random page, read a passage, and spend the rest of the afternoon mulling over the ideas, their implications, and the beauty of their expression. This volume collects not only his most famous book but dozens of articles and letters where you can see his mind evolving and changing. Leopold modeled an integrity and a curious mind at work that I try to emulate. I know I’m not alone. 

This is my favourite ever environmental book. Superbly written in an engaging narrative, Emma Marris explores the complex realities and contradictions of living in a world where the human and non-human components can no longer be separated. And she finds that this mixture is not so bad. If the only way that we can keep wild nature the way it used to be (or rather, the way we usually mistakenly imagine it to have been) is to manage it ever more intensively, then we might as well accept the inevitable. Humans are part of our planet, not separate, and the reality is that all nature everywhere has at least partly been touched by the hand of humans, and in this sense, we are already living in a planetary garden.

She describes it as rambunctious because wildlife does not simply sit back and take the medicine, it grows and lives where… show more.

In John McPhee’s classic defense of environmental sanity and wilderness protection, the archdruid is David Brower, in his day among the planet’s most fervent environmentalists and defenders of nature.

Charles Fraser, a resort developer, labeled Brower a “druid”: i.e., “ a religious figure who sacrifices people and worships trees,” and I know of no other book that so starkly contrasts the urge to develop everything—even the Grand Canyon!—with the counter urge to preserve as much as possible of the wild before it is all gone.

I deeply appreciate McPhee’s format: a series of dialogues in which Brower and his three opponents extol their arguments fully and then engage in rigorous debate about their wildly contrasting values.

Neither Muir nor Sellars pay much attention to Indigenous communities living in or near national parks—Dispossessing the Wilderness puts the lie to the claim that Native peoples were afraid of or have vanished from these places. Spence examines the Indigenous histories of Yellowstone, Glacier, and Yosemite, and concludes that while white federal officials expended a tremendous amount of energy promoting the myth that the nation’s national parks are “uninhabited wildernesses,” Indigenous communities have continued to claim them in various ways. Compelling and wide-ranging in its analysis, this is a must-read for fans of the national park system.

A normal high school in Wisconsin disappears, along with everyone in it. Stranded on an alien planet, the accidental voyagers must figure out who (or what) they’re up against, how best to survive, and whether there’s any way to return. Meanwhile on Earth, their stunned families struggle to cope with what they’ve lost.

The Woods, my favorite comic series of all time, is split into nine volumes, and the first hits the ground running. With Lord of the Flies-level social politics and a high body count, this sci-fi saga is not for the faint of heart.

As a kid growing up in Alaska, I daydreamed of venturing into the wilderness alone. I was hooked on the promise of adventure.

This book follows that dream as the author and her partner set off on an astonishing quest to traverse Alaska in homemade boats. Thoughtful, funny, and magical, it’s a tale of true love as well as near-death escapes.

Sherry Simpson’s adventures in Alaska’s wilds are less “extreme” than Jill Fredston’s, but her writing about her experiences is even more thought-provoking. I love her notion of “wayfinding”–of relying on one’s own navigational and cognitive skills to explore nature or ideas. Equally intriguing is her concept of ground truthing–walking the land or going through a process oneself to really “get it.” She contrasts the understanding that personal exploration cultivates with the information maps provide. No comparison!

These ideas raise the question: how well can we comprehend the experiences and realities of others if we haven’t ground-truthed them? Clearly, having immersed oneself in a foreign culture can foster empathy, but I want to believe that, short of that, with goodwill, one can recognize others’ humanity.